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BY   THE   SAME  AUTHOR 

Two  GENTLEMEN  IN  TOURAINE. 

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THE  SPIRIT  OF  LOVE  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

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THE  WOUNDED  EROS. 

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OF    THIS    EDITION   500    COPIES    HAVE    BEEN 
PRINTED    OF  WHICH  THIS  IS    NO.. 


Music  to  hear,  why  hear'st  tbou  music  sadly  ? 
Sweets  with  sweets  war  not,  joy  delights  in  joy  : 
Why  lov'st  tbou  that  which  tbou  receiv'st  not  gladly, 
Or  else  receiv'st  with  pleasure  thine  annoy  ? 

[SHAKESPEARE,  Sonnet  VIII. 


THE  WOUNDED  EROS 


>onnets 


BY 

CHARLES    GIBSON 

AUTHOR  OF 
THE  SPIRIT  OF  LOVE  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


WITH   AN   INTRODUCTION   BY 

WILLIAM  STANLEY  BRAITHWAITE 


BOSTON 
PUBLISHED  BY  THE  AUTHOR 


printeb  at  tfre  fiiterpibe 
1908 


Cambridge 


COPYRIGHT,    1908,   BY   CHARLES   GIBSON 
ALL    RIGHTS   RESERVED 


CONTENTS 

SONNET  PAGE 

A  winged  God,  all  powerful  to-day    ,     .     .  xxxviii 
I.   When    in    the    realm    of    rich    resplendent 

thought    I 

II.    I  dare  not  tell  thee  half  the  love  I  bear    .     .  2 

III.  How  shall  I  woo  thee  then,  O  fairest  maid  3 

IV.  With  kisses  would  I  woo  thee  first   and  say  4 
V.    How  shall  I  ever  thank  thee  for  the  boon     .  5 

VI.   Is  it,  in  truth,  a  gift  from  Heaven's  hand  .     .  6 

VII.   What  winged  boy  hath  caught  again  my  heart  7 
VIII.    Something  did  tell  my  soul,  though  not  thy 

troth 8 

IX.    In  what  uncertain  guise  doth  passion  strive  9 

X.   With  how  distressed  a  sentiment  my  heart    .  10 

XI.   Now,  should  I  chance  to  meet  thee  passing  by  n 
XII.    It   is    a   strange    and   wondrous  thing   that 

brings 12 

XIII.  I  know  not  how  to  cast  aside  the  power       .  13 

XIV.  I  saw  thee  yester-even,  through  the  maze     .  14 
XV.    Dost  have  no  heart,  sweet  one,  to  visibly      .  15 

XVI.  Dost  cherish  something  in  thy  heart  for  me  16 

XVII.  How  delicate  a  passion  in  the  heart  ...  17 

XVIII.  To  me  thou  art  an  angel,  born  to  earth  ...  18 

XIX.  Is  it  then  given  to  some,  life's  happiest  hours  19 

XX.  Have  I  not  loved  thee  truthfully  enough  .  .  20 


vi  CONTENTS 

XXI.   Shouldst    thou,   perchance,    peruse    these 

simple  lines 21 

XXII.   If  love  too  oft  repeats  itself  herein  ...     22 

XXIII.  How  true  it  is  that  every  joy  we  feel    .     .     23 

XXIV.  Yet  why  repine?  'Tis  he  who  laughs  that 

wins 24 

XXV.   Oh,  for  the  longed-for  moment  that  might 

bring 25 

XXVI.   Oh  heart!   hast  thou  no  liberty  to  gain     .  26 

XXVII.   Dearest  of  dearer  things,  that  are  to  me  .  27 

XXVIII.    For  there  is  that  in  man  which  doth  desire  .  28 

XXIX.  Sweeter  than   are  the  flowers  of  spring, 

that  bloom 29 

XXX.  Consign  me  not,  while  honoring  thy  love  .     30 
XXXI.   Was  it  with  joy  or  with  time's  false  relief     31 

XXXII.   Dost  thou  not  feel  some  longing  in  thy 

breast 32 

XXXIII.  Even  could  to-day  have  brought  thee  unto 

me 33 

XXXIV.  Dear  heart!  why  dost  thou  shun  my  own 

desire 34 

XXXV.  What  fault  within  me  dost  thou  cultivate  .  35 
XXXVI.   Loved   one,  though  thou   shouldst   spurn 

me  as  a  thing 36 

XXXVII.   Didst  have,  for  me,  one  fleeting  hour  of  love  37 

XXXVIII.   Ah  me!  Sad  fate  doth  overcome  my  soul   .  38 
XXXIX.   And  now  what  hope  have  I  to  touch  thine 

heart 39 


CONTENTS  vii 

XL.   How  often  have  I  asked,  through  this  past 

year 40 

XLI.    Methinks  the  saddest  of  all  pains  to  bear      41 
XLII.   As  the  wild  waves  roll  o'er  some  rock- 
bound  coast 42 

XLIII.   While  sad  at  heart,  that  thou  wilt  not  give 

me 43 

XLIV.   When  clouds  disperse,  and  sunshine   fills 

the  sky 44 

XLV.   Should  I  return,  and  find  once  more  that 

thou 45 

XLVI.   What  God  hath  made  thee  half  of  graven 

stone 46 

XLVII.   Canst  thou  not  feel  the  tragedy  of  love.       47 
XLVIII.   To-morrow  I  must  journey  for  a  space     .     48 
XLIX.   For  what  strange  purpose  hath  God  sent 

this  longing 49 

L.    How  little  comfort  is  there  in  the  thought     50 
LI.   For  each  long  league  that  bears  me  far 

from  thee 51 

LII.   When  last  I  saw  thee,  thou  wert  uppermost     52 
LIU.    O  mighty  Prophet,  who  dost  signify     .     .     53 
LIV.   If  thou  hadst  felt  toward  me  as  I  to  thee      54 
LV.    Like  the  soft  air  of  summer  is  thy  smile  .     55 
LVI.   If  every  song  I  sing  seems  tinged  with  sad 
ness       56 

LVII.   Like  the  new  moon,  cold  mistress  of  the 

heaven 57 


viii  CONTENTS 

LVIII.   Ah    Love!     Couldst   thou    but   greet   me 

every  even 58 

LIX.   Love  is  not  passion;  nor  is  passion  love  .     .     59 
LX.   What  subtle  fragrance,  like  some  passion 

flower 60 

LXI.   Unto  the  sea  my  love  I  would  compare  .     61 
LXII.   There  is  a  lovely  avenue  of  trees    ...     62 
LXIII.   Upon  the  highland  spaces  greet  me,  Love     63 
LXIV.   When  the  red  sun  sinks  toward  the  west 
ern  line 64 

LXV.   Whenever  thou  dost  let  a  passing  thought     65 
LXVI.   If  in  the  years  to  come  life  bringeth  thee     66 
LXVII.   Oh!  when  the  cold,  fleet-footed  hour  of 

dawn 67 

LXVIII.   If,  when  thou  hast  found  out  that  life  is 

sorrow 68 

LXIX.   With  what  despair  thou  hast  inspired  my 

muse 69 

LXX.   How  sweet  to  me  are  these  soft  days  of 

spring 70 

LXXI.   Thou  earnest  unto  me  last  eventide    .     .     71 
LXXII.   Yet  now  I  cannot  with  impunity    ...     72 
LXXIII.   While  thou  art  near  to  me,  my  spirit's 

bride 73 

LXXIV.   While  I  gaze  in  thy  dancing  eyes,  I  seem     74 
LXXV.   In   springtime,  when   pale   primroses  in 

flower 75 

LXXVI.   With  every  day  that  summer  doth  con 
ceive  76 


CONTENTS  ix 

LXXVII.   I  know  a  path  of  velvet  green,  that  sinks     77 
LXXVIII.   No  time  could  hold  my  heart    more  fit 

than  this 78 

LXXIX.   Now  love  returneth  with  new  grace  to  me     79 
LXXX.   Though  summer  showers  drown  the  seeds 

of  love 80 

LXXXL   Like  columbine  in  May,  or  rose  in  June      81 
LXXXII.   Cold  heart,  that  hath  not  felt  some  pass 
ing  pain       82 

LXXXIII.  When  thou,  dear  one,  hast  lived  as  long  as 

I 83 

LXXXIV.   Strange  law,  whose  reason  man  doth  not 

possess 84 

LXXXV.   From  Thee,  Eternal  Power,  came  my  life     85 
LXXXVI.   My  hope  had  been,  that  I  might  find  in 

thee 86 

LXXXVII.   God,  through  His  offspring  Nature,  gave 

me  love 87 

LXXXVIII.   With  some,  the  law  of  love  doth  work  at 

ease 88 

LXXXIX.    Let  not  the  measure  of  my  love  make 

thine 89 

XC.   All  else  may  die :  the  leaves  that  Nature 

bore 90 

XCI.    O  thou,  fair  youth,  to  whom  the  gods  have 

given 91 

XCII.    Believe  not,  gentle  maid,  that  all  is  won     92 
XCIII.    Love  heeds  not  time,  nor  space,  nor  form, 

nor  woe 93 


K  CONTENTS 

XCIV.   Happy  my  heart,  and  happier  far  was  I  .    .    94 
XCV.   Strive  as  I  would  to  banish  from  my  mind     95 
XCVI.   Since  on  thy  form  hath  beauty  laid  its  hand     96 
XCVII.   In  those  brief  moments  when  thou  wert  my 

own 97 

XCVIII.  Let  not  thy  beauty  serve  thee  in  the  guise   .    98 
XCIX.  When  I  alone  unto  my  chamber  go  ...    99 
C.   When  all  the  world  would  smile  in  summer 

time 100 

CI.   A  little  flower  in  my  garden  groweth      .     .  101 
CII.   My  love  makes  of  my  life  a  sad  display     102 
CIII.   If  in  thyself  doth  all  my  love  reside  .     .     .  103 
CIV.  Though  my  true  love  should  be  my  own 

undoing 104 

CV.   Though  thou  shouldst  not  perceive  how  love 

in  me 105 

CVI.  To  thee  all  life  is  but  a  passing  pleasure    .  106 
CVII.  Not  clothed  in   transient  beauty  nor  pale 

health 107 

CVIII.  No  mind  have  I  to  tell  thee  all  thou  art .     .  108 
CIX.   Oh,  Love  doth  play  such  wanton  tricks  with 

men 109 

CX.   Not  all  the  years  of  my  uncounted  pain  .     .no 

CXI.  At  least  thou  canst  not  say  I  have  not  loved  in 

CXII.   Often  do  I  in  meditation  dream    .     .     .     .112 

CXIII.   If  thou  who  readst  this  verse  do  find  herein  113 

CXIV.   Yet  ne'ertheless  would  I  make  holiday  .     .114 

CXV.   Oh!  well  have  I  examined  my  defect     .    .115 


CONTENTS  xi 

CXVI.   Oh!  what  a  thought  hath  filled  my  brain 

this  night 116 

CXVII.   And  with   the   morn,  though  sunrise   shall 

disperse 117 

CXVIIL  Not   every  prince,  nor  king,  nor  emperor 

liveth 118 

CXIX.    How  shall  I  all  thy  virtues  here  recount .     .119 
CXX.   'T  is  strange,  how  little  doth  the  world  per 
ceive       120 

CXXI.  That  which  we  have  we  value  not  to-day      .  121 

CXXII.   Oh,  chide  me  not,  if  in  this  life  I  make      122 

CXXIII.   If  thou  wert  chained  by  the  bans  of  life   .  123 

CXXIV.   Thou  art,  in  truth,  my  muse's  only  guide  124 

CXXV.    Back  from  the  sculptured  chantry  of  the 

past 125 

CXXVI.   If  all  the  value  of  my  love  is  this     .     .     .126 

CXXVII.   Oh !  lay  aside  thy  pen,  since  thou  must  sing  127 

CXXVIII.   The  Wounded  Eros  fell  upon  the  ground  .  128 

0  thou,  fair  one,  who  never  shalt  be  known    129 


INTRODUCTION 

IN  these  Sonnets,  the  author  has  set  down  the 
record  of  a  passion  which  makes  one  more  of 
those  stories  of  the  heart  written  by  the  poets 
who  have  joined  the  company  of  Sir  Philip  Sid 
ney.  The  company  of  poets  is  a  glorious  one, 
and  the  poetic  stories  are  among  the  most 
touching  expressions  of  human  experience. 

We  can  find  no  difference  between  these  great 
chronicles  of  the  heart,  beyond  the  fact  of  love 
winning  or  losing,  except  what  time  has  made  in 
the  fashions  of  art  between  the  sixteenth  and  the 
twentieth  centuries.  One  cannot  believe  that 
the  complex  psychology  in  the  interpretation  of 
modern  love  makes  that  love  essentially  a  differ 
ent  thing  in  man's  nature  then  in  its  more  primal 
expression,  when  social  conditions  were  less  reti 
cent  and  self-conscious  in  the  tameless  civiliza 
tion  of  the  mid-sixteenth  century.  Here  is  the 
ancient  and  immemorial  love  of  man  for  woman, 
whose  only  change  has  been  the  difference  be 
tween  Adam  waking  to  behold  Eve  beside  him 
and  the  conventional  introduction  of  the  sexes 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

which  the  custom  of  the  twentieth  century  de 
mands.  The  influence  of  time  upon  love  is  not 
more  literal  in  the  science  of  sociology  than  in 
the  art  of  poetry,  and  one  has  but  to  take  a 
typical  Elizabethan  amatory  sonnet-sequence 
and  compare  it  with  Mr.  Meredith's  "  Modern 
Love,"  Mr.  Blunt's  "Esther,"  or  Mr.  Gibson's 
"The  Wounded  Eros,"  to  be  convinced  of  this 
opinion.  The  elemental  note  in  the  great  sonnet 
cycles,  from  Petrarch's  to  those  of  our  own  day, 
being  the  realization  of  an  objective  ideal  in  the 
opposite  sex,  with  the  interpretation  of  it  varying 
as  human  society  progressed  in  its  ethical,  moral, 
and  political  aspects,  there  remains  —  what  has 
always  made  the  intensity  of  interest  in  this 
poetic  form  —  the  circumstance  of  personality 
giving  tone  and  temperament  to  the  particulars 
of  this  episodic  drama  of  man's  heart.  Apart 
from  any  consideration  of  the  perfection  of  art 
in  which  any  series  of  related  love-sonnets  may 
be  dressed,  this  question  of  the  personal  attitude 
compels  interest.  It  is  the  private  chamber  of  a 
human  heart  opened  without  reserve,  for  the 
intrusion  of  strangers  to  behold  the  truth  of  a 
bitter  or  joyous  experience,  as  fate  may  decree. 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

In  this  book  of  sonnets,  there  is  touched  a  deep 
note  of  pathos  in  the  unrequited  passion  of  a  man 
who  tells  the  circumstances  of  his  own  love.  It  is 
so  before  all  things,  because  it  is  the  direct  speech 
of  a  heart  without  subtlety.  I  mean,  that  he 
invents  nothing  that  is  illusory  between  himself 
and  the  object  of  his  desire.  If  subtlety  had  been 
in  the  heart  of  this  lover,  one  might  have  expected 
more  frequent  verbal  conceits  in  the  methods  of 
telling  his  tale ;  but  the  lack  of  them  by  no  means 
diminishes  the  importance  of  its  human  interest. 
Indeed,  the  modern  sonnet  has  gained  in  this 
respect  over  its  predecessors  of  the  English 
Renaissance.  And  in  Mr.  Gibson's  sequence  the 
interest  is  entirely  a  modern  one. 

These  sonnets  of  the  "Wounded  Eros"  keep, 
moreover,  the  dignity  that  belongs  to  the  char 
acter  of  thought  and  feeling  employed  by  the 
best  examples.  If  less  abstract  in  any  symbolistic 
purpose,  they  gain  narratively  by  allusions  suffi 
ciently  definite  to  link  each  phase  of  emotion  into 
a  story,  —  the  story  old,  but  ever  new,  of  passion 
in  a  man's  heart  for  a  woman's  love,  —  and  the 
character  and  progress  of  it  unfolded  in  associa 
tions  wholly  spiritual.  The  one  here  celebrated 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

leaves  us  with  the  impression  of  being  a  myth 
created  in  the  fervent  imagination  of  the  poet. 
Her  vague  personality  hovers  in  uncertain  im 
agery  about  the  edges  of  the  poet's  metaphors. 
One  feels  her  influence  behind  the  poet's  concep 
tion  of  her  virtues,  her  faults,  and  her  physical 
charms,  rather  than  by  gaining  any  perception  of 
her  identity  through  speech  or  action.  Yet  it  was 
around  a  similar  ideal,  or  vision,  that  Dante 
and  Petrarch  wove  stories  of  devotion  and  rhap 
sodic  worship :  and  Shakespeare  has  been  able  to 
mystify  the  curiosity  of  three  centuries  of  prying 
criticism  and  literary  history. 

Despite  the  revelation  of  the  lover's  heart  in 
this  poem,  the  poet  has  veiled,  if  indeed  she 
exists  at  all  in  any  world  more  palpable  than 
Arcadia,  the  object  of  his  affection  behind  the 
profuse  chronicling  of  his  own  feelings.  It  is 
through  him  the  story  proceeds  for  us;  his  nat 
ure  acting  as  an  impressionable  substance  upon 
which  her  influence  shapes  itself  into  mood  and 
manner.  Yet  it  is  more  often  from  memory  and 
recollection  —  the  consecration  of  a  dream  — 
that  the  image  weaves  its  spell  upon  the  wor 
shipper: — 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

"Thou  wilt  not  give  me 
Thy  treasured  self,  more  often  than  the  time 
Of  every  year  doth  change," 

he  declares;  and  for  a  maiden  so  obdurate  in 
denying  those  frequent  meetings  which  are  the 
very  Eden  of  love's  progress,  we  can  plainly  see 
how  the  task  became  difficult  in  building  the 
illusion  of  love  between  these  two  people  of  the 
imagination. 

If  it  was  the  woman's  indifference  which  led 
to  such  arbitrary  allowances  of  time  when  she 
might  be  visited,  we  can  begin  to  understand 
from  what  source  is  taken  the  significance  of  the 
author's  title.  The  writer  of  these  Sonnets  had, 
as  the  reader  following  his  story  will  discover, 
his  love  wounded  by  all  the  opposing  fates  of  his 
passion  concentrating  in  the  cruelty  and  vanity 
of  the  woman  he  loved.  That  even  in  these  quali 
ties  of  disposition,  however,  she  was  without  that 
self-conscious  arrogance  which  intentionally 
hurts  the  feelings  of  honest  and  faithful  affection, 
is  attested  throughout  the  entire  poem  by  many 
a  gracious  allusion.  We  are  prone  to  consider 
her  innocent  of  any  base  premeditated  wile  or 
motive;  like  Keats'  Fanny  Brawne,  she  simply 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

lacked  that  sympathetic  nature  which  was  able 
to  penetrate  and  appreciate  the  true  worth  in  the 
man's  heart  which  fate  had  laid  at  her  feet. 

"Tell  me,  in  truth,  why  thou  dost  still  seem  fond 
Of  me,  yet  'neath  my  heart  dost  plunge  the  knife." 

This  is  the  paradox  in  this  woman's  nature,  and 
a  bit  of  real  human  nature  it  is  of  the  gentler 
sex,  the  attempt  to  delineate  which  has  been 
the  theme  of  much  noble  music  flowing  from 
wounded  hearts. 

What  is  the  mystery  in  the  perverseness  of 
such  natures  ?  Is  it  the  complexity  in  personality, 
of  which  the  possessor  has  neither  knowledge  nor 
control  ?  Or  is  it  the  enigma  of  human  nature 
moulded  into  the  subtler  diverse  forms  of  the 
feminine  sex  ?  Whatever  it  is,  it  offers  questions 
in  psychology  hard  to  deal  with  in  any  form  of 
art.  That  it  can  at  least  be  handled  with  interest, 
this  poem  shows.  Mr.  Gibson's  theme  works  out 
in  its  allotted  way  the  immemorial  conflict  upon 
the  old  battleground.  All  the  forces  of  individual 
character  and  temperament  are  levied  in  the  pur 
suit  and  the  evasion;  and  when  in  the  end  comes 
the  surrender  or  escape,  —  happiness  or  despair 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

in  the  heart,  —  there  is  still  the  same  wonder  and 
mystery  of  it  all,  such  as  man  and  woman  have 
experienced  over  and  over  again  since  time  began. 
The  end  of  this  battle  of  man's  and  woman's 
heart  against  terms  of  alliance  with  the  opposite 
sex  is  always,  and  has  always  been,  inexplicable. 
A  force  deeper  than  can  be  comprehended  or 
controlled  —  the  vital  preservation  of  the  hu 
man  kind — draws  them  by  its  inevitable  laws 
towards  the  completion  of  its  wonderful  purpose 
in  mortal  existence:  and  yet  the  peculiar  circum 
stances  of  man's  intellectual  sovereignty  over 
the  destiny  of  his  kind  have  set  this  purpose  into 
warring  factions. 

Man  never  ceasing  to  follow  the  sun  of  his  life 
in  woman's  heart,  his  brother  shall  never  cease 
to  take  interest  in  the  story  of  an  experience 
which  at  one  time  or  another  has  cast  its  sun 
shine  or  shadow  over  the  daily  routine  of  his 
existence.  In  the  hidden  nooks  and  memory- 
places  of  each  man's  life  there  abides  the  reality 
or  ghost  of  an  ideal,  with  woman's  hair  and  eyes 
and  voice,  cloistered  in  dreams  of  virtue  and 
tenderness  and  inhabiting  realms  beyond  reach 
and  concern  of  man's  workaday  world  with  its 


xx  INTRODUCTION 

practical  and  sordid  interests.  This  ideal  is  car 
ried  in  secret  hours  when  no  man's  suspicion  can 
detect  the  captured  joy.  It  is  far  too  holy  a  thing 
to  have  its  birth  and  growth  revealed  to  the 
unsympathetic  knowledge  of  any  whose  hearts 
are  not  likewise  confined  in  the  prison-cage  of  a 
woman's  soul.  It  is  left  for  poets  and  romancers 
to  look  into  men's  hearts  and  tell  the  world  the 
stories  of  these  passions,  for  which  life  has  given 
them  the  capacity  to  feel  and  enact,  but  not  the 
subtlety  and  precision  of  speech  to  express  and 
interpret. 

The  story  of  the  "Wounded  Eros"  is,  as  the 
reader  will  discover,  the  story  of  an  oblation  full 
of  inexplicable  shadows.  Certainly,  as  the  lover 
relates  the  progress  of  his  suit  against  the  ob 
stinacy  and  contradiction  in  the  woman,  —  so 
vague  in  all  her  influences !  —  there  is  consider 
ably  less  of  that  heroic  attitude  in  a  love-passion 
which  we  would  be  inclined  to  associate  with  one 
who  is  so  unreasonably  ill-used.  This  man  is 
ever  the  optimistic  lover  in  his  despair;  constant 
—  even  unalterably  persistent  —  in  the  hope  of 
ultimately  touching  and  winning  the  sympathy 
of  her  nobler  self  in  the  woman.  True,  at  times, 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

because  of  that  unimpeachable  self-respect, 
which  is  the  touchstone  of  all  his  dealings  with 
life,  he  cannot  keep  silent  about  her  faults  of 
temperament.  But  the  spirit  in  which  he  sings 
of  these  obvious  shortcomings  is  one  to  chasten 
and  correct  that  which  does  not  so  much  offend 
his  own  sensibilities  as  it  blemishes  and  affects 
the  character  and  disposition  of  her  womanhood. 
What  true  man  has  ever  yet  been  blind  to  the 
faults  in  the  woman  he  loved !  These  deepen  and 
enlarge  her  virtues,  since  after  all  she  is  essen 
tially  human  beneath  the  divinity  with  which 
the  idealization  of  man  envelops  her  being.  But 
all  poets  do  not  conceive  the  sex  so  realistically 
in  this  respect  as  Mr.  Gibson.  Nor  in  this  does 
he  take  away  anything  from  the  exquisite  fascin 
ation  that  surrounds  them.  He  makes,  instead, 
more  interesting  and  piquant  those  perverse  ele 
ments  in  the  character  of  this  woman,  which 
furnish  the  episodical  themes  for  his  sonnets  to 
weave  their  unhappy  design  upon  the  loom  of 
his  story. 

I  want  to  indicate  here  what  seem  to  me  the 
important  qualities  in  the  poem,  which  are  in 
tended  both  to  carry  on  its  development  from 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

one  emotional  phase  to  another  of  the  story,  and 
simultaneously  to  reveal  the  peculiar  personal 
characteristics  of  the  man  and  woman.  I  want  to 
mention  them  in  their  detached  aspects,  because 
I  think  they  are  effective  in  an  unusual  way. 
And  while,  after  a  close  study  of  these  sonnets, 
I  am  convinced  of  their  origin  in  the  imagina 
tion,  —  that  is  to  say,  there  being  no  likelihood 
that  the  story  is  of  an  actually  known  experience, 
—  I  am  impressed  with  the  note  of  sincerity 
which  will  convince  the  reader  of  the  poet's  seri 
ous  and  honest  treatment  of  his  material. 

In  the  circumstance  which  ensnares  the  man's 
affections  as  he  conceives  them,  the  author  finds 
fate  offering  no  atonement  in  the  end  for  the 
bitter  trials  of  faith  and  patience  endured ;  and 
in  his  art  the  poet  offers  no  compromise  to  ap 
pease  the  sentimentalist.  Truth  is  too  insistent 
of  her  rights.  Logic  is  too  tenacious,  too  piti 
lessly  inflexible  in  its  purpose  of  carrying  the 
intentions  of  fate  to  its  grievous  conclusions. 
Not  at  any  point  in  the  poem  is  there  the  least 
suggestion  that  chance  will  alter  the  fortunes  of 
this  battle  of  hearts.  Only  through  a  heightened 
sense  of  moral  duty  in  the  woman  could  there 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

come  that  strength  of  sacrifice  which  is  the  test 
of  noble  characters,  and  change  the  final  note  of 
despair  into  one  of  exultation.  While,  as  I  have 
said,  the  author  does  not  attempt  to  work  his  art 
into  false  attitudes,  it  is,  strangely  enough,  just 
this  hope  which  underlies  his  apparent  resigna 
tion  at  the  end.  He  seems  somehow  to  entrust 
Time  to  transform  the  alloy  of  inconstant  youth 
in  the  nature  of  the  beloved  one  into  the  purer 
womanhood  of  maturity,  whom  a  larger  experi 
ence  and  deeper  knowledge  of  life  will  teach  to 
surrender  her  heart  to  his  constancy,  faith,  and 
unwearying  devotion. 

That  there  was  a  prophetic  feeling  from  the 
very  beginning  that  the  fruits  of  his  affection 
were  to  be  bitter  fruits,  is  suggested  in  Sonnet 
VII,  where  he  declares,  "Come,  though  I  pay 
love's  price  in  future  pain."  And  yet,  despite 
this  open-eyed  acceptance  of  a  task  so  full  of 
doubt,  he  can  say  in  the  very  next  Sonnet,— 

"This  pen 

Now  dedicate  to  love,  thus  born  again 
Out  of  thy  breast.  .  .  ." 

He  makes  the  dedication  of  his  life  upon  the 
altar  of  her  heart  with  all  its  strange  inconstan- 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

cies.  With  unquestionable  intention  she  has 
lured  him  with  the  skilfully  exercised  arts  of 
girlish  insouciance.  And  yet,  while  her  conduct 
is  not  exemplary,  and  should  be  lightly  treated 
as  the  dross  mixture  in  the  frivolous  tempera 
ment  of  maidenhood,  it  is  to  be  rigorously  cen 
sured  when  it  continues  wilfully  to  exercise  itself 
upon  the  serious  nature  of  a  man.  Although  the 
first  thought  one  has,  when  doubt  and  dismay 
have  been  the  reward  of  affection,  is  to  be  merci 
fully  emancipated  from  the  emotions  which  still 
make  a  woman  dear,  the  heart  cannot  wholly 
abandon  the  ties  no  longer  recognized;  and  so 
when,  as  in  Sonnet  XIII,  he  confesses, — 

"I  know  not  how  to  cast  aside  the  power 
That  holds  thy  presence  ever  in  my  thought. 
By  night  or  day,  thy  coming  once  hath  brought 
Incessant  longing  for  thee  every  hour. 
Why  can  I  not,  in  truth,  then,  overpower 
This  sense  of  something  that  is  vainly  sought, 
And  still  content  me  with  a  friendship  caught 
From  the  occasional  perfume  of  a  flower  ? " 

we  feel  in  this  case  that  the  compromise  is  made 
in  deference  to  the  woman's  lack  of  self-reliance 
in  being  frank.  "A  friendship  caught  from  the 


INTRODUCTION  xxv 

occasional  perfume  of  a  flower"  -these  lines, 
the  most  poetic  and  significant  in  the  poem,  are 
suggestive  of  a  very  subtle  pathos;  and  obdurate 
as  we  are  in  not  excusing  the  woman's  frailties, 
we  do  pity  her  weaknesses,  much  in  the  same 
way  as  our  regretful  pity  spends  itself  on  some 
beautiful  wild  flower  with  faint  and  wasting 
odors. 

The  flower  of  this  lover's  heart  is  one  nurtured 
by  the  sunlight  of  the  world's  opinion.  It  is  not 
sheltered  in  the  quiet  nook  of  pastoral  inexperi 
ence  with  the  ways  of  the  urban  world.  Morally 
unspotted,  it  is  ethically  tainted  with  all  the 
sophistication  of  its  environment.  As  in  jSonnet 
XIV,  she  is  seen 

"through  the  maze 
Of  lights  and  worldly  episodes  of  man," 

it  is  inevitable  that  her  lover  should  cry,  — 

"Shouldst  thou,  perchance,  peruse  these  simple  lines, 
I  wonder  even  if  thy  heart  would  be 
Touched  by  the  pathos  of  my  love,  and  see 
In  them  the  attitude  that  love  defines, 
Unfettered  by  the  selfish  light  that  shines 
Through  many  a  worldly  eye." 

And  in  Sonnet  XXIX,  where  he  says  she  is 


xxvi  INTRODUCTION 

"sweeter  than  are  the  flowers  of  spring,"  that 
"give  a  delicate  perfume  unto  the  airs,"  he  ac 
knowledges  those  charms  which 

.  .  .  "surprise 
My  soul  with  smiles  that  banish  every  gloom," 

yet  regretting  that  one  so  bountifully  gifted  with 
physical  charms,  and  possessing  all  the  polite 
accomplishments  of  culture,  should  be  under 
those  influences  that  are,  like  a  canker,  eating 
the  loveliness  of  soul  from  her  young  life. 

"I  would  that  I  ... 
Might  pluck  thee  from  thy  temporary  bed 
Of  earthly  pleasure,  and  possess  the  flower 
Of  thy  young  life,  to  keep  it  worthily 
Within  the  garden  of  my  heart." 

Before  it  is  too  late  he  would  pluck  her  from 
her  "temporary  bed  of  earthly  pleasure"  —she 
whom  Love  stands  ready  to  transform  into  the 
glory  of  her  sex.  The  world,  he  tells  her,  is  a  bad 
school,  with  all  its  deceits,  rivalries,  and  petty 
selfishness,  and  he  who  sees  her  comeliness 
would  protect  it  from  ruin  in  the  "  garden  of  his 
heart."  With  all  his  care  and  solicitude,  with 
his  admirable  and  untiring  sacrifice,  she  remains 
unresponsive  to  the  full  hope  in  his  soul.  There 


INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

are  the  "blessed  hours"  she  brings  him,  but 
conferring  them  only  to  make  him  sadder  for  the 
brief  joy.  For,  "dying  all  too  soon,"  they  leave 
him  in 

"pain 
For  many  a  day  and  weary  week  betimes." 

Because  she  constantly  rejects  the  pressure  of 
his  suit,  "Refusing  strangely  love's  perpetual 
flowers,"  which  she  will  not  accept,  his  whole 
love  seems  vain,  — 

"Save  for  th'  alleviation  of  my  rhymes." 

The  solace  he  takes  in  rhyme  is  like  an  open 
sluice  for  the  pent-up  emotions  which  he  has  not 
been  allowed  to  pour  directly  into  the  harbor  of 
her  affections.  But  time  goes  on  and  finds  hen 
he  declares,  "false  in  thy  profession  of  love's 
leaven,"  and  ever  escaping  from  the  persistent 
assaults  of  a  determined  but  irreproachable  woo 
ing.  "  Yet  ne'er  lose  hope,  my  heart,"  he  says  :  — 

"Thou  shalt  succeed, 
So  thou  persist  in  thy  true  quest,  until 
All  barriers  opposing  thee  do  fall." 

And  what  barriers  they  were,  obstructing  the 
realization  of  this  hope !  Inconstant  as  the  sea, 


xxviii  INTRODUCTION 

with  an  almost  diabolical  power  to  delude  and 
deceive,  she  seems  to  take  infinite  delight  in 
raising  the  most  sanguine  expectations  only  to 
dash  the  joy  in  shattered  fragments  upon  the 
ground  of  despair.  Take  Sonnet  LXXI :  - 

"Thou  earnest  unto  me  last  eventide, 
When  the  dull  pain  of  absence  had  well-nigh 
Made  life  for  me  one  long-continued  sigh  — 

Oh!  rapture  to  my  soul,  more  sweet  to  me 
Than  glories  to  the  conqueror  of  a  nation ! 
Behold  my  dry  heart,  moistened  at  the  sound 
Of  thy  dear  voice  —  none  dearer  could  there  be  — 
And  my  sad  soul,  once  more  within  love's  station, 
As  thy  fair  form  doth  twine  my  heart  around!" 

Here  at  last  seems  the  surrender.  Now  that  her 
"fair  form  doth  twine"  around  his  heart,  the 
very  suddenness  of  victory  inspires  even  in  its 
joy  a  dubious  misgiving;  so  hard  won  has  it 
been,  that  all  the  past  anxiety  and  pain  robs  it 
of  half  the  exquisite  realization  the  event  should 
bring.  Whether  it  is  this,  indeed,  or  a  spirit  of 
chastisement  that  the  following  Sonnet  evokes, 
one  does  not  dare  positively  to  say :  - 

"Yet  now  I  cannot  with  impunity 
Receive  the  gilded  pleasure  of  thy  love. 


INTRODUCTION  xxix 

God  knoweth  with  what  zeal  for  it  I  strove. 
But  when  I  feel  love's  sweet  community, 
It  bringeth  to  me  the  lost  unity  — 
The  loneliness." 

Despite  the  momentary  doubt,  however,  the 
next  six  sonnets  are  rhapsodic  in  celebration  of 
the  perfect  union  of  feeling  that  binds  the  two 
hearts.  "For  love  at  last  walks  hand  in  hand 
with  me,"  he  sings.  And  there  seems  to  lurk  in 
all  their  association  the  atmosphere  of  a  convic 
tion  that  happiness  is  finally  to  crown  their  lives. 
But  the  charm  is  snapped.  The  woman  has  not 
yet  "drunk  the  cup  of  worldly  pleasure  dry." 
Betraying  his  trust  again,  she  proves  the  fickle 
baseness  of  her  nature.  The  wound  she  inflicts 
promises  to  be  deep  and  lasting.  The  bitter  cry 
in  Sonnet  LXXXVII,  with  its  splendid  opening 
line,  pierces  the  heart  with  sympathy  for  this 
unhappy  man : — 

"God,  through  his  offspring  Nature,  gave  me  love, 
Though  man  in  opposition  saith  me  nay, 
And  taketh  from  my  heart  its  life  to-day, 
As  through  the  valley  of  the  world  I  rove, 
Still  unaccompanied." 

From  here  on  to  the  last  Sonnet,  the  final  stage 


xxx  INTRODUCTION 

of  an  unhappy  experience  is  told  in  many  keys 
of  emotion.  Somewhat  detached,  in  his  resigna 
tion  to  the  inevitable,  the  man  now  turns  upon 
his  beloved  a  scrutiny  of  recollection  which 
analyzes  her  physical  and  mental  lineaments, 
and  weighs  each  motive  actuating  her  singular 
conduct.  Fair  in  his  judgments  of  her  virtues, 
there  is  no  hesitancy  on  his  part  to  censure  with 
rigor  her  distasteful  faults.  The  good  and  the 
bad  are  so  interwoven  in  her  nature  as  not  to  be 
superficially  discerned. 

She  was  a  creature  in  whose  nature  contrary 
rarities  were  combined,  to  exercise  upon  man 
powers  to  excite  the  highest  joy  and  the  deep 
est  despair.  She  was,  as  Sonnet  CVIII  draws 
her,  like  "Satan  in  angelic  vestment  drest." 
A  maiden  with  wonderful  physical  charms,  - 
fair  of  complexion,  from  whose  blue  eyes  shone 
the  light  of  infantile  innocence,  —  snaring  the 
hearts  of  men  to  torture  them  with  cold  and  cruel 
wantonness.  Living  for  herself,  and  in  herself, 
she  took  for  granted  the  homage  of  the  world. 
Pleasure  that  came  to  her  through  other  peo 
ple's  suffering  she  accepted  as  the  price  due 
one  to  whom  pleasure  was  ordained  at  birth. 


INTRODUCTION  xxxi 

She  never  cared  to  consider  life  seriously;  exist 
ence  was  measured  by  her  capacity  for  sensation. 
One  wonders  how  far  in  this  she  is  a  type  of  the 
modern  woman;  or  is  she  merely  an  exception 
in  the  portrayal  here  ?  But  sad  it  is  that,  beneath 
their  frivolous  exteriors,  such  women  carry 
tragedy  in  their  lives  as  a  gift  to  men. 

"Yet  love,  though  long  unkind,  hath  taught  me  this, 
That  I  may  find  expression  on  its  page; 
Though  not  the  record  of  its  perfect  bliss, 
Yet,  something  of  its  value  to  mine  age, 
Mixed  with  poison  from  the  fatal  kiss 
That  love  still  bringeth  in  its  equipage." 

The  martyrdom  has  been  suffered,  and  here  is 
the  record !  It  is  hoped  that  something  of  its 
value  —  the  lesson  of  its  confession  —  may 
become  a  contribution  to  the  age.  Every  deep 
human  experience  is  significant  of  a  moral. 
How  it  may  affect  the  conduct  of  those  who 
come  to  recognize  in  it  an  intimate  and  personal 
admonition  or  justification,  depends  on  how 
deeply  one's  sympathy  touches  the  subject  in 
hand. 

The  world  of  action  is  merely  the  concrete 
presentation  of  the  illimitable  cosmos  of  ideas; 


xxxii  INTRODUCTION 

passion  and  pain,  joy  and  sorrow,  —  the  emotions 
dramatized  into  comic  or  tragic  speech,  —  are  the 
symbols  of  the  phenomena  of  instinct,  some 
where  actively  concealed  in  the  vague  origins  of 
the  human  family.  Afloat  on  the  swirling  current 
of  existence,  man's  soul  is  tossed  and  buffeted  by 
the  contrary  influences  of  a  rebellious  primality. 
Its  forces  in  the  development  and  growth  of 
civilization  are  recorded  by  history,  demonstrated 
by  science,  and  analyzed  by  philosophy.  But  art 
alone  expresses  and  interprets  it.  Art  alone  con 
tains  that  contagious  spirit  which  underlies 
truth  and  beauty.  It  accomplishes  this  by  an 
essential  sincerity  in  the  artist;  and  find  what 
fault  one  will  with  the  manner  and  method  in 
the  composition  which  pretends  to  the  function 
of  aesthetic  presentation  of  life,  this  sincerity 
redeems  the  work. 

Little  has  been  said  here  concerning  the  man 
ner  in  which  this  poem  is  constructed.  The 
interest  of  the  substance  was  too  inviting  for  one 
to  be  lured  into  dissecting  its  form.  Artificial  as 
the  sonnet-form  is,  with  all  its  limitations,  we 
have  Wordsworth's  authority  for  its  many  possi 
bilities.  There  is  never  any  question  of  the 


INTRODUCTION  xxxiii 

merits  or  demerits  of  a  poet's  sonnets.  If  he 
bends  them  to  the  purpose  in  hand,  he  achieves 
his  intention,  and  in  this  respect  the  sonnets  of 
the  "Wounded  Eros"  are  no  exception. 

W.  S.  B. 


SONNETS 


Farewell !  tbou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing. 
SHAKESPEARE,  Sonnet  LXXXVIL 


<d  winged  God,  all-powerful  to-day, 
-*^    As  in  the  ages  past,  bath  brought  my  heart 
At  once  the  joy  of  Heaven,  yet,  with  black  art, 
The  curse  of  Hell ;  combined  in  this  lay. 
Therewith  I  must  content  me  on  my  way, 
As  love  its  fate  doth  to  the  world  impart. 
And  thou,  who  mayst  from  busy  thought  depart, 
To  read  what  I  in  falt'ring  verse  shall  say  : 

If  thou  be  young,  let  Cupid  crown  thy  brow 
With  myrtle  green,  like  love's  perpetual  wreath; 
That  thou  but  little  of  his  wrath  may  know. 
Or,  if  the  years  shall  bind  thee  in  their  sheath, 
And  with  old  age  thy  locks  do  hoary  grow, 
In  Heaven,  thou  shalt  find  what  was  lost  beneath. 


SONNETS 


WHEN  in  the  realm  of  rich  resplendent 
thought, 

The  glories  of  love's  paradise  appear, 
How  soon  do  smiles  dispel  the  midnight  fear, 
And  bring  possession  of  the  prize  long  sought  ? 
Unto  the  banquet  of  the  heart  are  brought 
Fresh  delicacies  that  to  all  are  dear. 
At  such  a  feast,  O  lover,  dry  thy  tear, 
And  think  no  more  on  battles  that  are  fought. 

Let  all  thy  powers  celebrate  in  song 
This  victory  thou  hast  won  from  solitude. 
Think  not  of  sorrow's  pall,  nor  fate's  past  wrong 
That  once  delayed  thy  soul's  beatitude. 
At  Hymen's  court  shalt  thou  reside  for  long, 
Since  thou  art  of  love's  crowned  multitude. 


SONNETS 


II 

I  DARE  not  tell  thee  half  the  love  I  bear, 
Stored  in  this  amorous  bosom,  oh,  my  heart, 
Lest  thou  believe  me  mad,  and  we  should  part; 
As  with  the  one,  whose  love  I  first  did  share. 
Stirred  in  hot  haste  my  heaven  to  declare, 
I  wooed  too  warmly,  while  young  Cupid's  dart, 
Plunged  'neath  my  breast,  saw  happiness  depart, 
Just  as  I  hoped  Love's  magic  crown  to  wear. 

Long  have  I  mourned;  yet  now  that  thou  art  found, 
My  folly  would  repeat  its  youthful  test; 
Yea,  with  a  thousand  follies,  at  the  sound 
Of  love,  once  more  begotten  in  my  breast. 
Still  hold  me,  Sorrow!  Wisdom  would  resound 
Within  my  soul,  and  whisper  what  is  best ! 


SONNETS 


HOW  shall  I  woo  thee,  then,  thou  fairest  maid 
That  e'er  did  stir  a  lover  true  to  love  ? 
Fluttering  its  wings  upon  the  air,  a  dove 
Descends,  the  emblem  of  what  God  hath  said 
Was  peace  and  love  to  every  man  that's  made, 
To  seek  on  earth  some  emblem  from  above; 
To  strive  once  more  for  that  for  which  he  strove, 
And  see  the  truth  of  life  before  him  laid. 

Thus  wouldst  thou  lead  me  to  some  higher  way 
Than  man  doth  seek,  to  satisfy  desire, 
Fanned  by  the  glories  of  this  corporal  form, 
Made  manifest  by  something  that  doth  say : 
"Now  let  these  senses  thine  own  soul  inspire, 
And  brave  the  turmoil  of  thy  passions'  storm." 


SONNETS 


IV 

WITH  kisses  would  I  woo  thee  first  and  say, 
"Come   to    my   garden,   thou    fair  violet 

flower." 

Sweet  is  th'  intoxication  of  thy  power 
That  bringeth  some  new  fragrance  every  day: 
Nor  these  embraces  would  I  gladly  stay, 
At  my  first  thought  and  knowledge  of  the  shower 
Of  the  living  evidences  that  empower 
The  loving  to  assume  the  lover's  way. 

But,  lest  thine  own  too  maidenly  reserve 
Shall  not  requite  the  gladness  of  my  soul, 
Blind  to  all  else  but  that  which  may  preserve 
The  extasy  of  love's  attained  goal, 
I  must  needs  pause,  alas!  once  more,  and  serve 
Minerva's  colder  law  and  pay  its  toll. 


SONNETS 


HOW  shall  I  ever  thank  thee  for  the  boon, 
Thou  winged  child,  that  lifted  thus  my  soul, 
And  quenched  the  thirst  for  love,  that  many  a  bowl 
Of  golden  wine  had  failed,  alas!  too  soon, 
To  satisfy,  from  eventide  to  noon  ? 
For  I,  who  lingered  near  some  mossy  knoll, 
Received  thy  love-tipped  arrow  at  its  goal; 
And  bare  the  wound,  rejoicing  with  a  tune. 

Then  bind,  fair  one,  with  love  thy  wounded  swain. 
Give  him  thine  eyes,  but  breathe  thy  soul  as  well 
Into  his  welcome  heart,  that  beats  with  pain, 
Lest  it  should  have  an  hapless  tale  to  tell. 
Ah !   Spare  me  that,  my  love,  and  in  thy  train 
Shall  Heaven  be  wherever  thou  mayst  dwell ! 


SONNETS 


VI 

IS  it,  in  truth,  a  gift  from  Heaven's  hand 
That  brings  thee  hither,  loved  one,  to  prepare 
My  heart  once  more,  for  something  that  shall  share 
The  worship  which  thy  being  would  command  ? 
Behold  me,  Venus!  Measured  in  the  band 
Of  votaries,  at  the  shrine  and  in  the  air 
Of  myrtle  boughs  and  honey-scented  hair, 
That  make  of  Love  a  pleasing  fairy-land ! 

Take  me,  mine  own!   But  art  thou  yet  mine  own, 
Though  on  this  couch  that  holds  thee  I  recline, 
To  melt  in  sadness  at  thy  very  frown, 
And  laugh  if  I  but  knew  that  thou  wert  mine  ? 
Then  temperance  in  thy  love !  My  heart,  refrain ! 
Let  wisdom  rule  if  victory  should  remain ! 


SONNETS 


VII 

WHAT  winged  boy  hath  caught  again  my  heart, 
To  hold  it  now  in  beauty's  fair  embrace, 
Who,  with  enticing  attitude,  the  place 
Of  love  once  more  hath  wounded  with  his  dart  ? 
Half  fearing  first,  I  begged  him  to  depart; 
Yet  now,  enslaved  in  love's  half-hidden  maze, 
How  can  I,  loving  thee,  my  voice  upraise, 
And  leave  behind  the  vision  that  thou  art  ? 

Come,  then,  sweetheart,  and  meet  my  own  caresses ; 
Come,  though  I  pay  love's  price  in  future  pain. 
Greet  me  at  eve  with  those  delicious  kisses, 
That  bear  the  realms  of  Heaven  in  their  train. 
Tell  me  of  odors  sweeter  than  thy  blisses : 
Then,  only  then,  from  love  would  I  refrain ! 


SONNETS 


VIII 

SOMETHING  did  tell  my  soul,  though  not  thy 
troth, 

That  I  might  find  in  love  life's  pleasant  morning, 
Like  lovely  maid,  some  flowery  grove  adorning, 
Just  as  in  verse  imagination  doth. 
The  thought  I  treasured  in  me,  nothing  loth, 
Yet  never  dreamed  that  I  should  find  Love  scorning 
That  which  I  gave;  to  spurn  it  without  warning, 
And  crush  the  flower  as  lightly  as  a  moth. 

May  I  not  yet  with  gratitude  this  pen 
Now  dedicate  to  love,  thus  born  again, 
Out  of  thy  breast,  and  seemingly  to  stay  ? 
Thou  fair  divinity,  adored  of  men, 
To  death  I  must  consign  my  banished  pain, 
And  find  in  thee  the  fulness  of  to-day! 


SONNETS 


IX 

IN  what  uncertain  guise  doth  passion  strive 
To  work  in  men  the  mischief  of  their  being; 
Even  as  Satan  doth  pursue  them,  fleeing 
In  fear  from  their  own  shadows,  while  alive. 
Yet,  from  the  realm  of  passion  we  derive 
Something  that  with  true  love  is  well  agreeing; 
That  he  who  once  hath  seen  is  alway  seeing, 
Tragic,  yet  like  a  flower  that  doth  revive. 

And  thou,  my  own,  whose  love  doth  quicken  life 
To  fragrant  sweetness  hitherto  unknown, 
Take  me,  but  half  unworthy  as  I  come, 
And  rule  my  dear  heart's  dwelling  as  my  wife. 
By  deeds  the  spirit  of  true  love  is  shown, 
Though  passion  still  doth  find  its  earthly  home. 


io  SONNETS 


X 

WITH  how  distressed  a  sentiment  my  heart 
Doth  think  of  thee,  my  heart  alone  can  tell, 
Nor  easily  interpret  thoughts  that  dwell 
Within  this  sorrowing  spirit,  lest  we  part, 
To  meet  not  as  we  have,  with  love's  sweet  art 
Designing  pictures  in  some  flowery  dell 
That  held  those  garlands  which  from  lovers  fell ; 
For  every  time  I  think  of  thee  I  start. 

'T  is  long  since  thou  didst  come,  to  make  my  life 
A  heaven  of  fleeting  rapture  in  my  breast, 
Bright  as  the  silvery  star,  that  shines  above 
The  firmament  of  man's  uncertain  strife. 
Thou  tookest  from  me  all  that  I  possest; 
Then  give  me,  give  me  in  return  thy  love ! 


SONNETS  ii 


XI 

NOW,  should  I  chance  to  meet  thee  passing  by, 
That  holy  fear  would  overcome  my  soul, 
Which  poets  speak  of,  as  th'  attained  goal 
Of  love's  ideal  doth  seem  to  greet  the  eye. 
Still,  would  we  ask  our  own  desire  why 
We  find  love's  bark  oft  wrecked  upon  the  shoal, 
That  lies  beneath  the  quivering  waves,  that  roll 
In  cold  deception  of  the  lovers'  tie. 

The  old  familiar  wound  comes  back  to  me, 
My  loved  one ;  the  neglect  (though  thou  shouldst  think 
It  scarce  neglect)  stings  nightly  my  poor  heart. 
Each  day  is  lost  that  brings  no  sight  of  thee. 
Must  I  then  once  again  this  goblet  drink, 
Of  love's  sweet  poison,  as  we  drift  apart  ? 


12  SONNETS 


XII 

IT  is  a  strange  and  wondrous  thing  that  brings 
Love  unrequited  to  the  human  heart. 
To  me  it  comes ;  from  thee  it  would  depart. 
And  all  the  while  a  stirring  song  it  sings, 
Bearing  an  undescribed  refrain  that  clings, 
In  unremitting  strength,  like  that  sweet  dart 
Whose  love-tipped  messenger  of  life  thou  art. 
It  bears  to  me  a  memory  that  stings. 

Must  I  then  languish  in  remembrance  of 
Those  treasured  moments  of  unearthly  joy, 
That  bore  me  to  the  realm  of  magic  halls, 
Where  are  reflected  images  of  love  ? 
I  trow,  thou  hast  no  heart  to  thus  destroy 
My  own  heart's  happiness  that  from  thee  falls! 


SONNETS  13 


XIII 

I  KNOW  not  how  to  cast  aside  the  power 
That  holds  thy  presence  ever  in  my  thought. 
By  night  or  day,  thy  coming  once  hath  brought 
Incessant  longing  for  thee  every  hour. 
Why  can  I  not,  in  truth,  then,  overpower 
This  sense  of  something  that  is  vainly  sought, 
And  still  content  me  with  a  friendship  caught 
From  the  occasional  perfume  of  a  flower  ? 
Oh,  lover!  ask  that  question  of  thyself, 
And  answer  it,  in  face  of  nature's  calling : 
If  in  all  reason  thou  couldst  satisfy 
Such  craving  in  thy  soul.    For  I  myself 
Hold  difficult  the  effort  of  forestalling 
That  which  I  most  reluctantly  defy. 


H  SONNETS 


XIV 

I  SAW  thee  yester-even,  through  the  maze 
Of  lights  and  worldly  episodes  of  man, 
Filling  the  room  with  brilliancy,  that  can 
So  well  adorn  thy  loveliness,  and  daze 
My  wondering  eyes,  each  time  I  mutely  gaze 
On  thee  from  far,  while  all  thy  treasures  fan 
This  fever  of  my  soul.   Oh,  cast  this  ban 
Of  fear  from  off  myself  and  hear  my  praise ! 

Yet,  when  at  last  we  met,  how  cruelly 
The  fascination  of  thy  careless  speech 
Pierced  my  poor  heart,  held  in  love's  fell  disease, 
While  I,  o'erwhelmed  by  force  of  loving  thee, 
Unable  wisdom  toward  myself  to  teach, 
Did  tremble  in  thy  presence,  ill  at  ease. 


SONNETS  15 


XV 

DOST  have  no  heart,  sweet  one,  to  visibly 
Perceive  the  romance  of  my  life's  desire, 
To  formally  within  thy  breast  inspire 
That  reverence  for  love,  which  is  to  me 
The  holiest  element  'twixt  those  who  see 
The  spiritual,  earthly  things  attire  ? 
Thus,  in  my  longing  soul,  I  would  aspire 
To  capture  thy  fair  being  finally. 

Ah !  may  that  day  be  mine,  before  life's  morning 
Ends,  all  too  soon,  the  power  to  attain 
By  physical  endearment  thy  sweet  soul : 
Thy  heart  my  own,  and  mine  thy  life  adorning 
With  all  the  gifts  of  love,  that  appertain 
To  the  ideal  of  love's  own  sacred  goal ! 


16  SONNETS 


XVI 

DOST  cherish  something  in  thy  heart  for  me, 
Loved  one  ?  Then  give  it,  lest  the  time  should  pass, 
And  we  lose  something  we  should  have.    Alas, 
How  often  is  this  futile  aim  to  be 
Destroyed  by  that  still  dangerous  enemy 
Of  love's  best  happiness :  the  fatal  glass 
Through  which  the  hours  fall  ?   Ah,  let  it  pass 
Not  thus  that  Nature  meant  that  we  should  be ! 

If,  in  thy  character  no  longing  comes, 
For  interchange  of  confidence  or  love, 
How  can  love  live,  unnourished  by  the  draught 
Of  that  which  forms  the  happiness  of  homes  ? 
If  in  thy  spirit  thou  cotildst  but  approve, 
Then  take  this  cup  that  willingly  I  quaffed ! 


SONNETS  17 


XVII 

HOW  delicate  a  passion  in  the  heart 
Is  this,  conceived  beneath  the  roughest  form! 
Yet,  while  the  sentiment  of  love  is  warm, 
We  feel  the  force  of  sorrow,  should  we  part. 
Thus  would  it  seem  to  me,  whene'er  thou  art 
Occasionally  ruffled  by  the  storm 
Of  my  desire,  swiftly  to  inform 
Thy  spirit  of  the  love  which  I  impart. 

Turn  not  thy  head,  fair  one,  away  from  me; 
Nor  at  my  words  condemn  the  soul's  desire, 
That  drives  from  man  all  thought  of  other  things. 
Torn  by  my  passion,  I  would  willingly 
Cast  all  earth's  treasures  to  th'  eternal  fire, 
If  I  might  once  fly  heavenward  on  thy  wings! 


i8  SONNETS 


XVIII 

TO  me  thou  art  an  angel,  borne  to  earth 
By  some  fair  chance  that  fans  the  summer  wind. 
Thus  would  thy  magic  power  upon  me  bind 
The  tendrils  of  my  heart  about  thy  birth. 
There  is,  indeed,  in  thy  fair  soul  no  dearth 
Of  the  divine  incentive  to  be  kind, 
I  veritably  do  believe,  but  find 
Unutterable  sorrow  in  thy  worth. 

An  angel  I  have  told  thee  that  thou  wert; 
Yet  thou  denied  the  truth  of  my  true  saying, 
That  thou  possessed  the  beauty  of  the  gods. 
Was  it  more  true  —  ah,  how  my  heart  is  hurt, 
To  half  believe  that  thou,  like  Satan  playing, 
Couldst  set  at  naught  love's  holiest  periods  1 


SONNETS  19 


XIX 

IS  it  then  given  to  some,  life's  happiest  hours 
To  blissfully  enjoy,  in  love's  delight? 
Behold,  ye  gods!  I  look  upon  the  sight! 
I  swoon  and  die,  to  feel  that  nature's  flowers 
Do,  in  my  own  experience,  their  powers 
Of  giving  fragrance  lose  within  the  night. 
Yet  would  my  heart  reveal  the  lover's  plight, 
And  seek,  in  thy  pursuit,  celestial  bowers. 

Oh,  tell  me  that  thou  art  not  cold  and  dumb 
To  my  entreaties  for  one  little  part 
Of  what  thou  boldest  in  impiety! 
Here  at  thy  feet,  I  beg  but  for  a  crumb 
Of  love's  own  comfort,  for  this  aching  heart, 
That  doth  deserve  its  full  satiety. 


SONNETS 


XX 

HAVE  I  not  loved  thee  truthfully  enough, 
Sweetheart  ?   How  canst  thou  willingly  deny 
That  through  love's  intercourse  I  did  comply 
With  every  whim  of  thine  ?  Couldst  thou  rebuff 
The  tenderness  of  love  with  paltry  stuff 
That  men  do  flatter  with,  and  thus  defy 
Far  holier  elements  of  life  ?  Ah,  why 
Dost  thou  prefer  a  hand  still  stained  and  rough  ? 

Is  it  not  that,  surrounding  thee,  are  many 
Who  think  less  deeply  than  my  heart  would  go, 
To  find  a  kindred  being  in  the  air 
Of  sacred  treasures,  that  but  few,  if  any, 
Seek  in  this  life  (and  thus  their  folly  show), 
While  we  might  still  love's  habitation  share  ? 


SONNETS  21 


XXI 

SHOULDST  thou,  perchance,  peruse  these  simple 
lines, 

I  wonder  even  if  thy  heart  would  be 
Touched  by  the  pathos  of  my  love,  and  see 
In  them  the  attitude  that  love  defines, 
Unfettered  by  the  selfish  light  that  shines 
Through  many  a  worldly  eye.    Perchance  if  she, 
To  whom  my  love  is  given,  comes  to  me 
In  after  years,  while  still  my  heart  repines : 

Ah  then,  how  can  I  tell  what  memories 
May  not  have  saddened  all  that  makes  life  cheery  ? 
How  can  I  know,  it  will  not  be  too  late, 
And  that,  by  then,  these  loving  reveries 
Disperse  with  time,  when  I  am  old  and  weary 
Of  my  stern  race  with  life  and  sterner  fate  ? 


22  SONNETS 


XXII 

IF  love  too  oft  repeats  itself  herein, 
These  verses  testify  to  my  dear  cause; 
To  eagerly  acclaim,  but  never  pause, 
In  this  belated  quest,  if  I  would  win. 
Let  it  not  then  be  counted  as  a  sin, 
Should  this  one  word  occur  in  every  clause, 
That  doth  my  heart  describe  with  truth,  because 
No  other  dwells  so  fittingly  therein. 

For  if  not  thus,  how  else  may  lovers  speak, 
Save  in  that  self-same  language,  recognized 
By  all  who  have  experienced  the  fire 
Of  love's  sweet  passion,  which,  though  strong  or  weak, 
Gives  that  with  which  all  men  have  sympathized, 
And  still  on  earth  doth  every  soul  inspire  ? 


SONNETS  23 


XXIII 

HOW  true  it  is  that  every  joy  we  feel 
Carries  its  own  full  price  of  equal  pain, 
And  brings  to  us  some  sorrow  in  its  train. 
I  thought  me  safe  from  love,  yet  now  I  kneel 
Before  thy  lovely  being,  and  conceal 
But  little  of  that  joy  which  I  obtain. 
Still  what  I  have  seems  mixed  with  thy  disdain. 
How  can  I  then  unto  thy  soul  appeal  ? 

If  it  is  but  the  force  of  my  disease 
That  makes  me  over-sensitive  with  thee, 
And  causes  me  to  suffer  at  thy  frown, 
Or  long  thy  fleeting  anger  to  appease, 
'T  is  difficult  for  my  blind  love  to  see 
How  best  with  jewels  thy  fair  head  to  crown ! 


24  SONNETS 


XXIV 

YET  why  repine  ?  'T  is  he  who  laughs  that  wins. 
The  careless,  gay,  unfeeling  company 
Of  men  who  think  not  of  emotion,  see 
Th'  accomplishment  of  their  unholy  sins 
Bring  from  the  many  an  applause  that  dins 
The  voice  of  one  poor  soul,  who  lives  to  be 
Truer  to  nature's  homily  than  he 
Who  cares  not  how  love's  happiness  begins. 
Then  let  me  sing  with  gayety  and  smile; 
Though  hard  it  be  to  mask  my  agony 
Of  loneliness,  when  thou  art  otherwise 
Engaged.   Assist  me,  Eros,  to  beguile 
This  heart,  that  cares  more  for  the  company 
Of  those  who  would  be  neither  great  nor  wise ! 


SONNETS  25 


XXV 

OH,  for  the  longed-for  moment  that  might  bring 
Thy  soul  in  closer  touch  or  tune  with  mine, 
And,  in  the  fulness  of  its  love,  entwine 
Our  hearts  in  one  eternal  praise;  to  sing 
Love's  paean  unto  God!   An  angel's  wing 
Were  better  suited  to  thy  form,  to  shine 
In  Heaven's  brilliancy,  and  make  divine 
That  which  thy  soul  upon  this  earth  would  fling. 

Whatever  change  of  heart  may  come  to  thee, 
Thou  fairest  of  earth's  flowers,  my  beloved, 
Think  not  to  find  me  absent  from  thy  side, 
In  that  blest  hour,  which  I  have  prayed  to  see; 
Nor  shrink,  from  fear  that  I  may  be  removed 
From  thy  dear  shrine,  whatever  may  betide. 


26  SONNETS 


XXVI 

OH  heart,  hast  thou  no  liberty,  to  gain 
That  which  thou  seekest  so  persistently  ? 
'T  is  now  full  many  a  year,  insistently, 
That  thou  dost  search  for  love's  maturer  fane. 
Art  thou  thine  own  to  be  refused  again 
By  nature's  rude  requital  now  to  thee : 
This  poor  return  for  love's  best  gift  ?  Ah  me ! 
Why  should  she  turn  thy  pleasure  unto  pain  ? 

'T  is  only  then  by  loving  me  that  thou, 
Dear  one,  canst  save  me  from  eternal  fire : 
Unending  grief  from  which  I  may  not  rise, 
Save  by  the  glad  acceptance  of  a  vow 
From  thee;  to  turn  Hell's  flame  to  Heav'n's  desire, 
That  those  who  love  shall  win  Love's  sacred  prize. 


SONNETS  27 


XXVII 

DEAREST  of  dearer  things,  that  are  to  me 
More  dear  each  hour  that  my  spirit  grows 
In  its  intensity  of  love,  and  flows 
With  warm  desire;  thy  true  love  I  would  see, 
Crowning  that  which  I  oft  have  wished  to  be 
Th'  attainment  of  my  life.   He  little  knows, 
Who  hears  of  me  from  enemies  and  foes, 
How  true  is  my  own  soul's  sincerity. 

For  I  had  rather  brave  the  fires  of  hell, 
Than  know  that  thou  shouldst  never  come  to  me, 
With  love's  embraces  in  thy  fair  blue  eyes, 
And  that  on  earth  I  ne'er  should  hear  thee  tell 
My  grateful  spirit,  how  thou  mightest  be 
That  which  alone  hath  power  to  quench  my  sighs. 


28  SONNETS 


XXVIII 

FOR  there  is  that  in  man  which  doth  desire 
Some  time,  in  every  heart,  the  play  of  love : 
The  emulation  of  his  life  above, 
Before  he  came  to  earth,  here  to  aspire 
To  something  unattained,  and  feel  the  fire 
Of  untaught  passion,  his  new  being  move 
To  sorrow,  that  it  doth  so  ill  behoove 
The  sense  of  love  to  suddenly  inspire. 

For  who  so  harsh,  that  he  denies  th'  embrace 
Of  beauty's  arms  about  his  melting  form; 
Or  doth  refuse  the  loved  one's  proffered  kiss, 
When,  half  reclining,  she  would  seem  to  chase 
All  care  from  off  this  earth,  in  one  fair  storm 
Of  loveliness,  whose  presence  is  true  bliss  ? 


SONNETS  29 


XXIX 

SWEETER  than   are  the  flowers  of  spring,  that 
bloom 

In  all  their  fragrance  underneath  the  skies; 
Fairer  than  all  those  glories  that  arise 
From  earth,  to  give  a  delicate  perfume 
Unto  the  airs,  that  by  their  birth  assume 
New  life  and  joyousness;  I  would  surmise 
To  be  thy  charms,  which  frequently  surprise 
My  soul  with  smiles  that  banish  every  gloom. 

I  would  that  I,  one  half  as  easily, 
Might  pluck  thee  from  thy  temporary  bed 
Of  earthly  pleasure,  and  possess  the  flower 
Of  thy  young  life,  to  keep  it  worthily 
Within  the  garden  of  my  heart,  and  wed 
Thy  true  love  to  my  own  far  greater  power! 


30  SONNETS 


XXX 

CONSIGN  me  not,  while  honoring  thy  love, 
To  the  sad  realm  of  lovers  who  have  lost 
The  prize,  that  oft  to  them  their  life  hath  cost; 
Nor  send  me  from  th'  Olympian  height  above 
This  poor,  imperfect  life  wherein  we  move, 
Deep  down  into  the  nether  world.   At  most, 
Have  pity  on  a  lover  that  thou  dost 
Not  have  the  heart  to  readily  reprove. 

My  own,  my  loved  one,  oh,  receive  from  Heaven 
That  which  I  pray  for  nightly,  ere  I  lay 
My  suffering  soul  to  rest!   I  would  that  I 
Had  power  to  give  what  Nature  hath  not  given 
To  thy  dear  self,  and  that  this  looked-for  day 
Might  yet  be  borne  upon  thee,  by  and  by! 


SONNETS  31 


XXXI 

WAS  it  with  joy  or  with  time's  false  relief, 
That  I  perceived  the  presence  of  thy  being, 
Clothed  all  in  charm,  once  more  alone,  and  seeing, 
Beheld  in  thee  both  happiness  and  grief? 
For  surely,  Cupid,  thou  art  but  a  thief, 
To  steal  from  man  his  heart,  and,  with  it  fleeing, 
Reduce  him  to  love's  penury,  agreeing 
The  while  to  soon  replace  his  lost  belief. 

Loved  one,  thou  bringest  with  thee  pleasant  hours, 
That,  dying  all  too  soon,  leave  me  in  pain 
For  many  a  day  and  weary  week  betimes; 
Refusing  strangely  love's  perpetual  flowers; 
Without  the  which  my  love  for  thee  seems  vain, 
Save  for  th'  alleviation  of  my  rhymes. 


32  SONNETS 


XXXII 

DOST  thou  not  feel  some  longing  in  thy  breast 
For  an  affection  that  on  earth  must  play 
The  part  of  Heaven's  imitation,  yea, 
The  power  on  which  true  love  must  surely  rest  ? 
How  willingly  would  I  thy  spirit  wrest 
From  its  cold  prison  house,  and  wake  to-day 
Some  sentiment  in  thee,  that  should  not  say 
My  love  was  but  a  visionary  quest! 

What  power  can  make  thee  understand,  that  I 
Do  feel  for  thee  all  Heaven  and  Hell  combined 
In  one  magnificent  emotion  here, 
And  that  thou  mightest  profit  well  thereby, 
Couldst  thou  but  recognize  the  love  confined 
Within  thy  heart,  and  cause  it  to  appear  ? 


SONNETS  33 


XXXIII 

EVEN  could  to-day  have  brought  thee  unto  me 
But  for  one  fleeting  hour,  I  might  rest 
In  the  enchantment  of  thy  bliss,  and  best 
Enjoy  this  marking  of  the  years  that  see 
A  quest  of  love,  that  from  my  birth  must  be 
The  strongest  passion  stirred  within  my  breast. 
Still,  though  my  soul  this  prayer  to  thee  addrest; 
Thou  wouldst  not  to  so  slight  a  gift  agree. 

And  yet,  how  little  honor,  fame,  compare, 
In  satisfaction  to  this  longing  heart, 
With  one  delicious  moment  in  thine  arms! 
Tormenting  vision  of  the  holy  air 
Of  heaven,  from  which  on  earth  we  soon  do  part; 
While  nothing  the  uneasy  spirit  calms! 


34  SONNETS 


XXXIV 

DEAR  heart!  why  dost  thou  shun  my  own  desire 
To  be  with  thee  each  hour  of  every  day, 
Each  day  in  every  year,  and  with  thee  play 
The  game  of  love  thy  beauty  would  inspire  ? 
I  cannot  now  extinguish  the  sweet  fire 
That  burns  within  my  soul.   To  thee  I  say, 
I  am  in  an  imperishable  way 
Thy  faithful  friend,  whose  love  shall  never  tire. 

Dost  thou  then  fear  committal  to  be  mine, 
Even  for  a  space,  lest  scandal  touch  thy  name  ? 
No  thought  is  further  from  my  wish  towards  thee. 
To  make  our  sweet  companionship,  in  time, 
Ripen  to  all  that  life  may  bring  to  fame, 
Is  my  intention  for  thyself  and  me. 


SONNETS  35 


XXXV 

WHAT  fault  within  me  dost  thou  cultivate  ? 
What  still  reject,  though  I  assure  my  heart, 
That  I  am  all  thine  own,  and  not  in  part 
The  man  thou  dost  possess  and  captivate  ? 
Still,  while  I  thank  the  gods,  I  would  berate 
The  irony  of  nature  that  doth  start 
In  me  the  wound  that  Cupid's  fiery  dart 
Hath  caused  to  flow,  and  mourn  it,  now  too  late. 

Why  must  the  mistress  of  emotion  give 
To  one  a  portion  of  divine  desire, 
And  to  another  an  unending  flow 
Of  love's  untempered  thought,  that  cannot  live, 
Save  in  some  reservoir,  that  must  inspire 
The  whole  of  thy  fair  being  love  to  know  ? 


36  SONNETS 


XXXVI 

LOVED  one,  though  thou  shouldst  spurn  me  as  a 
thing 

Unworthy  of  affection  or  regard, 
Think  not  alone  that  vanity  may  guard 
Thy  spirit  from  the  friend  that  thou  wouldst  fling 
So  heedlessly  aside.    For  life  may  bring 
Its  own  swift  sorrow,  sad,  or  cold,  or  hard; 
Then  mayst  thou  think,  perchance,  of  that  young  bard, 
Who  came  to  thee,  his  song  of  love  to  sing! 

And  when  thy  heart  repine  thee,  if  it  doth, 
Take  from  my  own  the  sorrow  thou  hast  given, 
Like  to  a  travesty  of  happiness, 
Devoured  in  its  fulness  by  a  moth, 
That  eats  the  leaf  from  off  the  tree  of  Heaven, 
And  leaves  the  soul  of  man  in  loneliness ! 


SONNETS  37 


XXXVII 

DIDST  have,  for  me,  one  fleeting  hour  of  love  ? 
Then  conjure  to  thyself  that  thought  again; 
Nor  from  its  own  sweet  constancy  refrain, 
Till  earth  and  air,  and  everything  above 
This  hemisphere  of  human  hearts,  doth  have 
No  longer  any  substance  in  its  train. 
Toward  this  ideal  I  willingly  would  strain 
Each  nerve,  my  soul  from  endless  grief  to  save. 

Sweet,  honeyed  flower,  whose  breath,  to  me  divine, 
Makes  earth  at  once  seem  Heaven,  that  Heaven  thyself; 
Bring  me  the  fragrance  of  thy  scented  being, 
More  full  of  fair  sensation  than  sweet  wine, 
That  doth  entice  new  torments  to  myself; 
And  give  to  me  what  I,  half  blind,  am  seeing. 


38  SONNETS 


XXXVIII 

AH  me!    Sad  fate  doth  overcome  my  soul, 
As  the  old  year  now  passeth  from  my  sight, 
And  many  a  hope  lies  dying  with  its  flight, 
To  hear  the  death-knell  of  the  hours  toll. 
Even  as  the  sounds  upon  the  night  airs  roll, 
Death  giveth  place  to  birth,  and  Love's  delight 
Is  born,  in  some  young  heart,  that  soon  may  plight 
Its  simple  troth,  and  reach  the  promised  goal. 

I  would  that,  with  this  old  year,  there  might  die 
In  me  all  sorrow,  or  desire  to  have 
That  which  I  may  not  soon  possess  as  mine, 
Or  that  this  hour  new-born  might  still  defy 
My  own  well-founded  fear,  that  thy  true  love 
Should  never  once  through  life  upon  me  shine ! 


SONNETS  39 


XXXIX 

AND  now  what  hope  have  I  to  touch  thine  heart, 
As  the  new  year  brings  joy  to  every  land  ? 
What  chance  is  there  that  thou  shouldst  understand 
That  which  defies  my  power  to  impart 
To  thy  dear  self  its  meaning,  though  I  start 
To  win  anew  with  love  thy  treasured  hand  ? 
Like  some  uncertain  pebble  on  the  sand, 
I  find  me  now,  tossed  by  the  waves  that  part. 

Oh !  canst  thou  not,  sweet  pearl  upon  the  ocean 
Of  love's  resistless  power  to  possess 
All  men  in  its  divine  and  fair  embrace, 
Perceive  my  unmistakable  devotion 
To  thy  sweet  self,  and  give  but  one  caress 
That  might  so  easily  thy  presence  grace  ? 


40  SONNETS 


XL 

HOW  often  have  I  asked,  through  this  past  year, 
If  all  that  I  have  suffered  did  repay 
My  fleeting  joy  of  Heaven  for  a  day; 
That  made  thy  soul  at  once  to  me  more  dear 
Than  all  else  in  the  whole  wide  world.    I  fear 
That,  in  my  heart,  I  may  not  truly  say 
It  brought  Love's  recompense  within  its  way, 
Or  caused  the  lowering  of  Love's  sky  to  clear. 

And  yet,  although  thou  wouldst  misuse  my  love, 
Without  apparently  one  real  regret, 
How  shall  I,  loving  as  I  do,  despair 
That  thou  mayst  still,  some  happy  day,  disprove 
The  charge  that  stains  thy  name :  soon  to  forget 
That  which  thou  wert  the  first  one  to  declare  ? 


SONNETS  41 


XLI 

METHINKS  the  saddest  of  all  pains  to  bear 
Are  those  which  break  in  twain  the  lover's  heart, 
Which  cling  to  life  when  love  from  life  doth  part, 
And  cause  it  to  take  sorrow  for  its  share. 
In  vain  do  men  go  forth,  in  dim  despair, 
Seeking  to  extricate  Love's  poisoned  dart 
From  some  dark  spot  whence  it  would  not  depart, 
And  still  return  to  find  it  fastened  there. 

O  god  of  Love !    Some  mercy  to  thy  swains 
Show  in  the  hours  of  agony  they  feel! 
Couldst  thou  but  suffer  half  they  do  endure, 
Or  feel  in  part  the  measure  of  their  pains ; 
With  something,  thou  wouldst  try  their  wounds  to  heal, 
Or  else  endeavor  thy  disease  to  cure! 


42  SONNETS 


XLII 

AS  the  wild  waves  roll  o'er  some  rock-bound  coast, 
And  break  in  futile  effort  to  possess 
Something  beyond  their  reach,  I  must  confess 
Am  I  in  my  fierce  passion,  that  can  boast 
No  more  of  thee  than  surging  seas  at  most 
Do  find  as  they  rebound  in  their  distress, 
Half-clothed  in  weeds  and  winter's  sombre  dress; 
So  often  have  I  thought  thy  love  was  lost! 

Yet,  at  one  little  word  or  smile  from  thee, 
These  winter  storms  do  change  to  summer  seas, 
And  I  am  softened  in  a  moment's  time. 
So  would  the  magic  of  thyself  give  me 
A  sweeter  sentiment,  that  still  doth  please 
More  than  the  summits  of  desire  to  climb. 


SONNETS  43 


XLIII 

WHILE  sad  at  heart,  that  thou  wilt  not  give  me 
Thy  treasured  self,  more  often  than  the  time 
Of  every  year  doth  change;  thy  lover's  crime 
I  still  may  countervail,  while  I  do  see 
Thy  lovely  form  once  more,  enclosing  thee 
Reclining  in  my  arms,  and  leave  sad  rhyme 
For  power  to  rejoice,  that  love  sublime 
Hath  still  returned  again  to  solace  me. 

If  not  thyself,  let  that  remembrance  come : 
The  holiest  hour  that  I  have  known  in  life, 
When  all  I  felt  were  God  and  Heaven  and  thee, 
To  still  remain,  when  thou  dost  leave  my  home, 
That  without  thee  is  only  a  sad  strife 
'T  wixt  my  desire  and  that  which  cannot  be. 


44  SONNETS 


XLIV 

WHEN  clouds  disperse,  and  sunshine  fills  the  sky, 
Then  doth  my  heart  think  fittingly  of  thee ; 
And  I  imagine  that  thou  think'st  of  me, 
As  one  who  loveth  for  eternity. 
Fair  one,  could  this  but  be  a  certainty, 
No  longer  would  I  crave  in  vain  to  see 
The  face  of  Heaven  after  death,  but  be 
Forever  on  this  earth  while  thou  wert  by. 

Ah!  but  such  dreams  of  happiness  disperse, 
Like  visionary  clouds  upon  the  air 
That  warms  with  sunlight  o'er  some  summer's  day, 
And  chills  again,  as  doth  my  passing  verse, 
Whenever  thou  refusest  Love's  sweet  lair, 
To  which  thou  know'st  so  well  the  only  way ! 


SONNETS  45 


XLV 

SHOULD  I  return,  and  find  once  more  that  thou 
Wert  willing  to  become  but  half  my  bride, 
With  what  swift  pace  would  I,  in  gladness,  ride 
O'er  the  salt  seas  or  coursing  streams,  that  plough 
Their  way  'twixt  rocky  chasms,  and  endow 
Their  passage  with  those  dangers  that  betide 
Love's  course,  as  we  pursue  it  side  by  side. 
Sweetheart!   What  would  I  give  to  see  thee  now! 

And  yet  how  sad,  this  knowledge  that  I  hold, 
From  past  experience,  within  my  heart: 
That  even  should  I  be  within  thy  reach, 
Thou  wouldst  not  make  one  effort  to  enfold 
Mine  arms  in  thine,  cold  maiden  that  thou  art! 
How  then,  at  last,  love  to  thee  shall  I  teach  ? 


46  SONNETS 


XLVI 

WHAT  God  hath  made  thee  half  of  graven  stone, 
Half  godlike,  His  own  image  to  portray 
That  thou  shouldst  so  continually  stray 
From  every  love-shaft  that  my  verse  hath  thrown 
For  these  long  years  toward  thee,  and  still  disown 
The  very  sentiment  that  thou  dost  say 
Moves  thee  to  love,  though  in  some  other  way 
Than  I  to  thee  in  my  full  heart  have  shown  ? 
Loved  angel,  of  some  sphere  so  far  beyond 
The  sordid  realm  of  this  poor  fleeting  life, 
That  thou  art  some  fair  spirit  clothed  with  form, 
Tell  me,  in  truth,  why  thou  dost  still  seem  fond 
Of  me,  yet  'neath  my  heart  dost  plunge  the  knife 
Of  love's  sad  torture,  and  my  spirit  storm  ? 


SONNETS  47 


XLVII 

CANST  thou  not  feel  the  tragedy  of  love, 
That  followeth  the  train  of  thy  delay 
To  give  what  thou  hast  owed,  full  many  a  day, 
Unto  my  patient  soul;  that  surely  strove 
Last  year  thy  loving  sentiment  to  move 
Toward  something  higher  than  mere  passion's  sway  ? 
How  canst  thou  then,  in  truth,  to  thine  heart  say 
Thou  hast  fulfilled  the  duty  of  true  love  ? 

I  fear  me  that,  like  many,  thou  dost  find 
A  cruel  joy  in  breaking  this  poor  heart, 
Whose  only  crime  is  that  it  loves  too  well. 
Dost  feel  no  obligation  to  be  kind 
To  those  who  honor  thee,  nor  to  depart 
From  evils  that  no  mortal  can  foretell  ? 


48  SONNETS 


XLVIII 

TO-MORROW  I  must  journey  for  a  space. 
A  year  it  seemeth,  though  a  month  it  be; 
For  in  it  thou  remainest  far  from  me; 
Nor  shall  I  once  behold  thy  lovely  face, 
Whose  coming  doth  so  well  my  chamber  grace; 
But  feel  the  hope,  oft  vain,  that  I  may  see 
Some  passing  vision,  or  something  of  thee, 
Which  each  new  day  I  live  doth  grow  apace. 

Ah !   Thou  didst  come  with  others  to  my  shrine, 
Even  as  the  sun  did  set  this  afternoon, 
And  give  to  me  one  of  those  rare  delights, 
That  move  my  soul  to  lose  itself  in  thine ; 
Like  some  fleet  harbinger  of  Love,  that  soon 
Departs  from  me  for  many  days  and  nights! 


SONNETS  49 


XLIX 

FOR  what   strange   purpose  hath   God   sent  this 
longing 

Unto  my  soul,  for  thy  most  precious  love, 
To  raise  it  suddenly  to  realms  above, 
And  then  deliver  it  to  one  belonging 
More  to  the  realm  of  Satan's  world,  destroying 
The  fair  ideal  that  all  my  life  I  strove 
To  realize  ?   Oh,  cause  me  to  remove 
This  spell  that  is  no  happiness  employing! 

Yet  who  that  falleth  in  love's  meshes  knoweth 
Why  he  hath  fallen,  or  from  whence  he  fell, 
Or  who  in  truth  can  understand  love's  reason, 
Save  that  some  joy  and  pain  it  often  soweth; 
The  most  of  which  we  cannot  always  tell, 
When  they  at  first  appear  in  love's  sweet  season. 


50  SONNETS 


HOW  little  comfort  is  there  in  the  thought, 
Kind  friends  so  often  give  love's  bleeding  heart 
That  love's  sharp  pain  grows  less  whene'er  we  part, 
And  leave  behind  the  prize  so  dearly  bought! 
Yet  who  doth  learn  this  lesson  he  hath  taught, 
So  that  when  love  shall  send  its  subtle  dart 
Within  his  soul,  he  may  the  same  impart 
Unto  himself,  and  leave  what  he  hath  sought  ? 

I  know  but  few,  among  them  not  myself, 
Who  practise  this  sad  cure  for  love's  disease, 
That  do  not  bear  some  wound,  in  after  years, 
More  painful  than  love's  wounding  pain  itself; 
Or  that  do  find  elsewhere,  what  doth  appease 
The  hunger  in  their  souls,  or  dry  their  tears. 


SONNETS  51 


LI 

FOR  each  long  league  that  bears  me  far  from  thee 
Doth  seem  to  take  life's  blood  from  out  my  veins, 
As  every  yearning  hour  that  passeth  drains 
The  spring  of  my  affection,  that  might  be 
O'erflowing  with  love's  precious  remedy. 
Ah  me!   This  is  a  grievous  fate  that  stains 
Love's  half-possessed  ambition,  and  remains 
To  overshadow  all  that  rests  of  me ! 

Loved  one,  I  find  not,  as  the  world  I  roam, 
A  spirit  half  so  comforting  as  thine, 
Ev'n  in  thy  moments  of  most  wilful  charm, 
None  that  would  half  so  fittingly  my  home 
Grace  with  its  presence,  or  from  whose  eyes  shine 
A  sweeter  light,  while  giving  love's  alarm. 


52  SONNETS 


LII 

WHEN  last  I  saw  thee,  thou  wert  uppermost 
In  every  thought  that  stirred  my  inner  being, 
In  every  act  thy  presence  I  was  seeing. 
And  now  thou  comest  to  me  like  a  ghost, 
While  I  receive  thee  as  some  phantom  host; 
For  every  time  I  touch  thee  thou  art  fleeing 
Far  from  the  tempest  of  my  heart;  agreeing 
With  some  sad  fate  that  happiness  hath  lost. 

Now,  though  I  strive  to  sever  from  my  heart 
Those  elements  divine  that  make  thy  love 
For  me  the  object  of  my  life's  desire, 
There  cometh  that,  which  doth  from  Heaven  depart, 
To  lift  me  once  again  to  Heaven  above, 
And  thus  forbid  that  I  should  quench  love's  fire. 


SONNETS  53 


LIII 

O  MIGHTY  Prophet,  who  dost  signify 
To  little  man  the  vanity  of  life, 
The  folly  of  its  temporary  strife, 
Give  to  the  only  one  who  doth  deny 
My  love  some  passing  sense,  to  gratify 
The  constant  longing  that  is  ever  rife 
Within  my  soul,  and  sever  with  a  knife 
This  fatal  cord,  my  love  is  fettered  by. 

With  some  such  prayer  to  thee  would  I  appeal, 
In  impotence,  to  strike  'gainst  nature's  law, 
That  causeth  love  unhonored  still  to  live. 
Before  thy  throne  now  humbly  do  I  kneel, 
As  at  the  feet  of  her  whom  I  adore, 
And  pray  that  love  to  me  thou  still  mayst  give. 


54  SONNETS 


LIV 

IF  thou  hadst  felt  toward  me  as  I  to  thee, 
Since  the  first  hour  that  love  knocked  at  my  heart, 
And  I,  unwilling,  opened  it  in  part, 
Then  would  all  Heaven's  warmth  have  been  to  me 
As  noon-day  sun  upon  some  tranquil  sea; 
And  every  hour  its  blessing  would  impart 
To  both  our  souls,  that  never  could  depart 
Till  we  had  cast  it  from  us  willingly. 

Then  why,  Sweet  Love,  should  this  not  still  be  so  r 
A  great  ideal  perchance  we  both  conceive, 
And  striving,  each  in  some  vain  way,  to  find, 
Lose  youth's  enduring  treasure  here  below. 
Why  mayst  thou  not,  then,  in  thy  heart  perceive 
That  thou  art  to  thyself  and  me  unkind  ? 


SONNETS  55 


LV 

LIKE  the  soft  air  of  summer  is  thy  smile, 
That,  lighting  on  my  sadness,  clears  the  air, 
To  make  this  clouded  life  again  seem  fair, 
With  all  thy  deft  enchantments,  that  beguile 
The  swains  that  follow  thee  for  many  a  mile. 
But  with  thy  sunshine  I  find  lurking  there, 
Something  in  thee  that  bringeth  deep  despair, 
Seeming  to  savor  of  young  Cupid's  wile. 

Then  hath  he  not,  mayhap,  enveigled  thee 
Into  the  mischief  of  his  lover's  net, 
And  caused  thee  to  torment  thy  swains  anew, 
With  tricks,  of  which  thou  mayst  the  author  be  ? 
'T  would  seem  as  if  some  love-snare  he  had  set, 
To  wreck  the  lives  of  lovers  not  a  few. 


56  SONNETS 


LVI 

IF  every  song  I  sing  seems  tinged  with  sadness ; 
If  every  hour  I  think  of  thee  I  sigh; 
If  I  for  love  still  grieve,  ask  me  not  why 
I  do  not  sing  to-day  in  joy  and  gladness; 
Nor  tell  me,  if  not  so,  that  it  is  madness. 
For  such  strange  action  would  my  heart  belie, 
And  from  my  spirit  ring  a  love-sick  cry 
Against  so  fair  a  semblance  of  its  badness. 

If  reason  thou  wouldst  have,  ask  thine  own  self 
Why  thou  dost  keep  me,  in  love's  penury, 
Upon  the  desert  of  my  great  desire, 
And,  like  some  oasis,  receive  myself 
At  distant  spaces  of  its  memory  — 
To  burn  my  soul  with  an  unquenched  fire ! 


SONNETS  57 


LVII 

LIKE  the  new  moon,  cold  mistress  of  the  heaven, 
A  silver  bow  delightful  to  behold, 
Art  thou,  sweet  maid,  sweet  both  to  young  and  old, 
Yet  false  in  thy  profession  of  love's  leaven ; 
Untrue  to  one  who,  true  to  thee,  hath  striven 
(Since  first  thy  love  thou  didst  to  him  unfold) 
To  keep  thee  from  becoming  chill  and  cold 
As  the  swift  snows  that  by  the  winds  are  driven. 

At  times  it  seemeth  thou  dost  act  a  part; 
Now  to  deceive  the  depth  of  my  life's  passion ; 
Now  loving  as  no  lover  did  before. 
Then  suddenly  within  my  soul  thou  art 
Like  some  ideal  that  God  alone  could  fashion; 
But  with  the  moon  depart  to  shine  no  more. 


58  SONNETS 


LVIII 

AH  Love!  Couldst  thou  but  greet  me  every  even, 
And  let  thine  eyes  lose  those  soft  rays  in  mine; 
Couldst  thou  but  share  with  me  this  bread  and  wine, 
Or  something  of  what  God  to  me  hath  given, 
Then  might  I  feel,  that  not  in  vain  was  driven 
This  love-shaft  in  my  soul;  for  it  would  shine 
With  gratitude,  and  round  thine  own  entwine 
The  fairest  flowers  that  e'er  were  grown  in  Heaven. 

Had  I  but  thee  to  share  my  pain  with  me, 
Pain  would  be  joy,  and  joy  that  pain  dispelled. 
Were  thy  dear  form  beside  me,  night  and  day, 
Then  could  I  grieve  no  longer,  but  would  be 
So  happy,  happiness  would  be  impelled 
To  change  my  spirit  in  some  magic  way. 


SONNETS  59 


LIX 

LOVE  is  not  passion;  nor  is  passion  love. 
The  two  are  twined  together  in  some  wise. 
Love,  spiritual,  cometh  from  the  skies, 
Ennobles  life  and  lifts  our  thoughts  above. 
Passion  we  find  oft  lurking  in  some  grove, 
Where  pleasant  sights  draw  forth  our  pleasing  cries, 
And  where  some  bird  of  plumage  round  us  flies, 
While  we,  half  knowing,  through  the  shadows  rove. 

Yet,  with  these  two,  we  find  ourselves  on  earth. 
One  seldom  doth  the  other  disengage. 
Strange  combination  of  life's  heaven  and  hell! 
That  giveth  unto  man  his  power  of  birth, 
And  causeth  him  to  claim  his  parentage 
Whenever,  or  where  he  may  chance  to  dwell. 


60  SONNETS 


LX 

WHAT  subtle  fragrance,  like  some  passion  flower, 
Lurks  in  the  petals  of  thy  love  for  me, 
That  seemeth  every  day  more  sweet  to  be, 
Thou  beautiful  example  of  the  power 
That  nature  hath,  with  loveliness  to  shower 
Her  favored  ones  ?   I  would  that  I  might  see, 
In  those  blue  eyes  that  show  so  much  of  thee, 
Some  deeper  color,  given  as  a  dower. 

Yet  ne'er  lose  hope,  my  heart.   Thou  shalt  succeed, 
So  thou  persist  in  thy  true  quest,  until 
All  barriers  opposing  thee  do  fall. 
Ah,  then  in  vain  no  longer  shalt  thou  plead ! 
But  of  love's  welcome  draft  drink  to  thy  fill, 
And,  in  that  hour,  know  life  doth  give  thee  all. 


SONNETS  61 


LXI 

TNTO  the  sea  my  love  I  would  compare, 
^— '    That  shineth  first  beneath  the  morning  sun, 
And  danceth  with  its  beams,  as  if  for  fun. 
Then  as  the  clouds  would  turn  them  to  despair, 
The  beams  soon  disappear  upon  the  air, 
Like  fairy  jewels,  that  away  would  run. 
Then,  as  their  beauty  doth  its  surface  shun, 
It  heaves  as  if  it  doth  some  sorrow  share. 

Far  down  the  sea  of  mine  own  love  doth  sink ; 
But,  soon  returning  on  itself,  a  wave 
Of  real  emotion  rolleth  o'er  my  heart; 
And  all  that  thou  hast  been  to  me,  I  think, 
Is  like  some  treasure  I  must  strive  to  save, 
And  guard  thee  well,  so  thou  canst  ne'er  depart. 


62  SONNETS 


LXII 

THERE  is  a  lovely  avenue  of  trees, 
That  winds  its  way  o'er  many  a  meadow-land, 
And  leads  in  time  to  the  salt  sea  and  sand, 
Where  I  have  walked  and  felt  the  summer  breeze 
Waft  the  sweet  air  that  fans  with  perfect  ease 
The  trembling  leaves,  the  ferns  on  every  hand; 
A  place  wherein  might  sport  some  fairy  band, 
And  in  their  gaiety  my  fancy  seize. 

In  some  such  place  would  I  find  love  awaiting, 
Ready  to  guide  me  by  the  trickling  brooks, 
And  lead  me  to  some  soft  and  rustic  lair. 
With  thee,  my  well-beloved,  would  I  be  mating 
(Like  birds  in  springtime  'neath  the  shaded  nooks), 
The  vision  of  thy  love  to  my  despair! 


SONNETS  63 


UPON  the  highland  spaces  greet  me,  Love, 
And  with  the  fir  and  hemlock  all  around  thee, 
Twine  thy  fair  self  about  my  soul,  and  be 
Therein  the  wood-nymph  of  my  rustic  grove. 
Now  dost  thou  fly  towards  me  like  some  sweet  dove, 
Lighting  from  branch  to  branch,  and  willingly, 
A  group  of  blossoms  bringing  unto  me 
From  the  ethereal  atmosphere  above. 

'T  is  in  the  air  of  nature  then  that  we 
Find  through  its  simple  pleasure  love's  delight, 
Free  from  the  turmoil  that  doth  find  its  birth 
In  following  the  paths  that  others  see. 
Then  would  the  stars  illuminate  the  night, 
And  turn  to  Heaven  the  very  things  of  earth. 


64  SONNETS 


LXIV 

WHEN  the  red  sun  sinks  toward  the  western  line, 
That  separates  our  vision  of  the  sky, 
And  each  soft  ray  far  from  the  earth  would  fly, 
To  touch  the  clouds  above  the  salt  sea-brine 
With  magic  tones  and  colors  half  divine ; 
Then  doth  my  soul  seek  thine  alone,  and  try 
These  tears  of  disappointed  love  to  dry, 
Imagining  that  life  on  me  doth  shine. 

Then  in  the  clouds,  o'er  Love's  blue  sky,  reflecting 
The  golden  radiance  of  thyself,  I  see 
Some  likeness  to  the  blood-stains  on  my  heart, 
That  thou  hast  pierced  and  wounded,  while  rejecting 
The  sunbeams  of  my  spirit,  given  to  thee, 
That  hold  thy  glory,  even  as  we  part. 


SONNETS  65 


LXV 

WHENEVER  thou  dost  let  a  passing  thought 
Inhabit  the  domain  of  my  desire, 
I  wonder  just  how  thou  mayst  then  inquire 
Within  thy  heart,  as  yet  untouched  though  sought, 
How  great  love's  sacrifice,  to  have  been  brought 
So  strangely  to  thy  life,  and  set  on  fire 
The  soul  of  one  who  doth  thine  own  admire, 
Although  thou  givest  in  return  but  nought. 

Were  it  but  given  to  thine  eye  to  see 
The  splendor  of  love's  passion  in  its  prime, 
Burning  upon  the  rock  of  thine  own  being, 
Nature  might  then  increase  her  power  in  thee, 
And  thou  might'st  find  a  summit  here  to  climb, 
That  would  eclipse  all  objects  thou  art  seeing. 


66  SONNETS 


LXVI 

IF  in  the  years  to  come  life  bringeth  thee 
Some  of  love's  sorrow,  to  carry  in  thine  hand ; 
If  thou  shouldst  thus  experience  it,  and 
By  its  strange  weight,  be  forced  to  think  and  see 
What  youth  casts  from  it  in  its  extasy; 
Then  only  couldst  thou  learn  to  understand 
How  suffering  hath  held  me  in  its  band, 
Since  I  first  found  how  cruel  love  could  be. 

Ah  me !    Though  by  this  means  thou  mightest  come 
To  know  the  value  of  love's  equipage, 
And  in  its  chariot  ride  toward  my  soul, 
I  would  not  wish  that  thou  shouldst  know,  as  some 
Like  me  have  known,  from  youth  to  hoary  age, 
The  price  they  pay  to  reach  so  dear  a  goal. 


SONNETS  67 


LXVII 

OH !  when  the  cold,  fleet-footed  hour  of  dawn 
Awaketh  me  once  more  to  consciousness, 
My  first  thought  is  of  thee,  but  with  distress; 
And  every  thought  that  followeth  (from  morn, 
Till  night  her  robe  of  darkness  'round  hath  drawn) 
Is  still  of  thee,  of  thee  I  do  confess, 
Clothed  in  sweet  love's  most  tantalizing  dress; 
Yet  of  love's  satisfaction  stripped  and  shorn! 

Then  doth  each  hour  in  withered  hope  pass  by, 
Each  day  and  week  and  month  seem  endless  death. 
And  when  thou  answerest  not  my  call  to  thee, 
I  watch,  till  hope  dead  in  my  heart  doth  lie; 
For  it  would  seem  some  evil  spirit  saith, 
That  I  forever  in  love's  hell  must  be. 


68  SONNETS 


LXVIII 

IF,  when  thou  hast  found  out  that  life  is  sorrow, 
More  frequent  than  youth's  careless  jollity, 
And  when  thou  pay'st  its  bitter  penalty, 
And  on  thy  cheek  Time  draweth  his  deep  furrow, 
Perchance  thine  own  experience  may  borrow 
From  mine  some  of  love's  rare  humility. 
Then  be  not  in  that  hour  at  enmity 
With  all  that  is  most  worthy  of  the  morrow. 
For  so  hath  haughty  youth  in  age  to  bow, 
And  unto  life  do  homage  for  its  power, 
And  grovel  in  great  shame  when  it  doth  find 
Its  fancied  value  Time  doth  not  allow, 
Ah!  then  mayst  thou  not  pluck  so  false  a  flower; 
Nor  say,  "To  me  love  hath  been  so  unkind!" 


SONNETS  69 


LXIX 

WITH  what  despair  thou  hast  inspired  my  muse 
In  these  sad  lines,  my  muse  alone  can  tell. 
For  were  I  to  describe  to  thee  the  spell 
Thine  eye  hath  cast  upon  me,  thou  wouldst  choose 
The  power  of  raillery  that  thou  dost  use, 
To  shatter  thoughts,  my  spirit  would  not  sell 
For  those,  far  greater,  which  the  poets  foretell, 
Oft  in  their  verse  Love's  magic  doth  infuse. 
But  all  that  I  hold  now  within  my  realm 
Of  art  is  thee,  that  art  thy  power  alone, 
To  make  my  lines  reflect  the  hours  of  spring; 
Or  yet  again  with  sadness  overwhelm. 
For  when  thy  heart  seems  graven,  as  in  stone, 
My  holiest  thoughts  to  earth  their  hopes  would  fling 


70  SONNETS 


LXX 

HOW  sweet  to  me  are  these  soft  days  of  spring; 
But  how  much  sweeter,  did  thy  beauty  bear, 
Like  cherry  blossoms  o'er  the  flowering  air, 
Its  scented  fragrance  to  me;  and  did  bring 
Some  songs  of  love,  like  birds  upon  the  wing, 
To  tell  me  that  my  love,  with  thine,  might  share 
These  lovers'  hours,  that  in  the  spring  appear, 
And  o'er  the  earth  their  efflorescence  fling. 

Ah,  Love !  thy  winter's  waiting  hath  well-nigh 
This  heart  of  mine,  for  love  of  thee,  so  broken, 
That  it  hath  scarce  the  power  to  beat  to-day. 
'T  were  time,  indeed,  to  compensate  my  sigh 
At  last  with  Love's  unutterable  token, 
That  shall  not  with  the  seasons  fade  away. 


SONNETS  71 


LXXI 

THOU  earnest  unto  me  last  eventide, 
When  the  dull  pain  of  absence  had  well-nigh 
Made  life  for  me  one  long-continued  sigh, 
And  given  me  but  little  hope  to  hide 
The  hideous  thought,  that  never  to  my  side 
Wouldst  thou  again  spontaneously  fly. 
Still,  some  o'erpowering  contact  bid  me  try. 
And  lo!  success  my  efforts  did  betide. 

Oh !  rapture  to  my  soul,  more  sweet  to  me 
Than  glories  to  the  conqueror  of  a  nation! 
Behold  my  dry  heart,  moistened  at  the  sound 
Of  thy  dear  voice  —  none  dearer  could  there  be  — 
And  my  sad  soul,  once  more  within  love's  station, 
As  thy  fair  form  doth  twine  my  heart  around! 


72  SONNETS 


LXXII 

YET  now  I  cannot  with  impunity 
Receive  the  gilded  pleasure  of  thy  love. 
God  knoweth  with  what  zeal  for  it  I  strove. 
But  when  I  feel  love's  sweet  community, 
It  bringeth  to  me  the  lost  unity  — 
The  loneliness,  when  I  no  longer  have 
Near  me  thy  spirit  sent  me  from  above, 
To  test  through  pain  my  soul's  immunity. 

Then,  though  this  cup  of  joy  be  mixed  with  sorrow, 
Once  more  must  I  drink  of  its  poisoned  draft, 
Whilst  praying  unto  God  to  purify, 
With  thy  return  of  love  to  me,  the  morrow, 
That  holds  the  price  of  that  which  I  have  quaffed ; 
And  for  all  time  my  spirit  satisfy. 


SONNETS  73 


LXXIII 

WHILE  thou  art  near  to  me,  my  spirit's  bride 
Art  thou.   No  mortal  can  possess  thee  now, 
Loved  inspiration  of  my  life !   I  trow 
Thou  lovest  me  while  we  are  side  by  side. 
No  sorrow  surely  will  this  eve  betide. 
Love's  heaven  only  our  two  hearts  shall  know, 
And  for  one  hour  leave  life  gladly  so, 
As  o'er  the  surface  of  love's  lake  we  glide. 

Ah,  loved  one!    An  emotion  my  heart  swelleth, 
Even  as  I  worship  at  thy  sacred  shrine, 
Which  is  the  noblest  life  hath  brought  to  me; 
So  great,  so  holy,  that  no  pen  e'er  telleth, 
Till  God  hath  given  man  a  sight  of  thee, 
And  shown  him  one  who  seemeth  half  divine ! 


74  SONNETS 


LXXIV 

WHILE  I  ga/e  in  thy  dancing  eyes,  I  seem 
Unable  to  imagine  that  thou  art 
So  cruel  as  deep  sorrow  to  impart 
To  one  who  holds  thee  in  love's  high  esteem. 
Who,  from  thy  face,  so  like  a  child's,  could  dream 
That  such  sweet  loveliness  did  often  start 
In  men  love's  worship,  only  to  depart, 
And  leave  them  sinking  in  life's  treach'rous  stream  ? 

Yet  such  thou  art,  in  character,  my  love, 
Thou  to  whom  I  must  dedicate  my  life, 
Praying  to  God  that  He  may  still  give  thee 
Some  understanding  of  His  realm  above, 
And  make  thee  willing  to  become  my  wife, 
Remaining  in  complete  accord  with  me. 


SONNETS  75 


LXXV 

IN  springtime,  when  pale  primroses  in  flower, 
Oft  interspersed  with  blue  forget-me-nots, 
Are  all  in  bloom,  and  the  wild  violet  dots 
The  mossy  field,  while  many  a  floral  shower 
Of  new-mown  hay  falls  in  some  shady  bower, 
Then  my  own  heart  doth,  like  new  garden-plots, 
Warm  with  the  sun,  that  unto  love  allots 
A  portion  of  contentment  as  its  dower. 

Thus  in  thy  haloed  presence  let  me  sing, 
Lightheartedly,  with  thy  dear  hand  in  mine, 
Through  many  a  waving,  daisy-scattered  field, 
Where  summer  doth  succeed  the  reign  of  spring. 
And  let  mine  arm  thy  being  half  entwine 
With  roses,  or  whate'er  the  seasons  yield. 


76  SONNETS 


LXXVI 

WITH  every  day  that  summer  doth  conceive 
(Like  some  good  mother,  happily  confined) 
My  love  its  simple  homily  doth  find 
In  nature's  soft  rejoicing,  and  receive 
From  winter's  sorrowing  a  just  reprieve, 
And  think  on  thee  with  joy  and  pain  combined, 
When  thou  art  absent,  and  of  thy  free  mind 
Return  my  sentiment,  I  do  believe. 

A  sweet  condition  to  my  soul  is  this, 
Bringing  the  blessedness  of  love  from  thee, 
Commingling  with  my  own  long-felt  desire; 
And  giving  something  of  thyself  to  me. 
Ah,  seal  this  thought  with  one  delicious  kiss; 
And  let  my  heart  to  happiness  aspire! 


SONNETS  77 


LXXVII 

I  KNOW  a  path  of  velvet  green,  that  sinks 
From  a  fair  hillside,  underneath  the  trees 
That  blossom  forth  in  May,  and  with  the  breeze 
Shed  scented  flowers,  all  lined  with  summer  pinks 
That  border  it  in  petal-covered  links. 
It  seems  a  fairy  lane,  well  fit  to  please 
Some  lover's  fancy,  as  the  mood  doth  seize 
The  heart  and  lead  in  time  to  wat'ry  brinks. 

There  with  thee,  Loved  One,  I  would  gladly  stray ; 
And  wander  o'er  these  grassy  slopes,  to  find 
Saint  Dorothy's  ascent  to  Paradise, 
Uplifting,  while  ascending  on  our  way 
To  saintly  bowers,  among  the  woods  enshrined, 
Where  magic  scenes  our  noblest  thoughts  entice. 


78  SONNETS 


LXXVIII 

NO  time  could  hold  my  heart  more  fit  than  this, 
The  vernal  month,  when  summer's  early  hours, 
Fanned  by  faint  odors  from  the  newborn  flowers, 
Bespeak  thyself,  the  thief  of  my  heart's  bliss, 
And  on  thy  cheek  imprint  the  tender  kiss 
That  bringeth  love  within  young  Cupid's  bowers. 
Thus  would  thy  magic  touch,  with  subtle  powers, 
Bring  to  my  soul  some  metamorphosis. 

No  more  repine,  O  heart!   No  longer  weep. 
No  more  heave  sighs,  or,  sighing,  be  cast  down. 
Nature  her  balm  of  sunshine  bringeth  thee, 
That  in  its  warmth  thou  shalt  her  treasure  keep. 
Let  not  my  brow  be  shadowed  by  a  frown; 
For  love  at  last  walks  hand  in  hand  with  me. 


SONNETS  79 


LXXIX 

NOW  love  returneth  with  new  grace  to  me ; 
For  why  not  so,  since  thou  dost  come  again, 
And  bring  fresh  flowers  of  thought  upon  thy  train, 
That  cause  my  spirit  thus  in  heaven  to  be  ? 
Ah!    Couldst  thou  then  but  understand  and  see 
What  holier  joys  the  heart,  the  soul  contain, 
Than  thy  poor  sense  of  fleeting  flesh  could  fain, 
Thou  mightest  know  love  to  eternity. 
For  as  I  would  endeavor  to  possess 
The  fulness  of  love's  wonderful  attire, 
The  knowledge  of  thy  spirit  is  more  sweet, 
For  me  to  hold  as  mine,  than  that  light  dress 
Encircling  it,  though  filled  with  beauty's  fire : 
Thy  lovely  form,  with  every  charm  replete. 


8o  SONNETS 


LXXX 

THOUGH  summer  showers  drown  the  seeds  of 
love, 

And  flood  the  garden  where  its  blossoms  bloom ; 
Though  fiery  suns  do  dry  the  yellow  broom 
Upon  the  bank,  and  parch  the  field  above; 
Though  autumn's  frost  shall  nip  the  flowery  grove, 
And  winter's  snow  kill  life  in  nature's  womb; 
Though  men  grow  gray,  and,  tottering,  reach  the  tomb, 
And  all  else  die,  and  life  no  longer  have : 

Yet  will  I  guard  thee  in  my  bosom,  dear, 
And  seek  to  gain  thy  spirit  for  my  own. 
For  no  such  prize  hath  nature  to  bestow 
That  could  so  well  disperse  the  shadow  drear, 
Or  offer  to  this  heart,  that  ne'er  hath  grown 
Accustomed  life  without  some  love  to  know. 


SONNETS  8 1 


LXXXI 

LIKE  columbine  in  May,  or  rose  in  June, 
Like  meadow  flower,  or  clover  in  the  morn, 
All  moist  with  early  dew,  that  laughs  to  scorn 
The  sunbeam  that  destroyeth  it  at  noon; 
Like  scented  lavender  or  rue,  that  soon 
Doth  usher  in  the  flow'ring  ears  of  corn, 
To  wave  in  glory,  ere  the  wind  hath  torn 
Their  emerald  leaves,  beneath  the  harvest  moon : 

Like  this  whole  pageant  of  the  season's  time, 
With  all  its  glories  rolled  into  one, 
Art  thou :  the  fairest  treasure  nature  bringeth, 
Through  every  year  and  every  age  sublime: 
For  in  thine  eyes  the  radiance  of  the  sun 
Could  warm  each  flower  and  every  bird  that  wingeth. 


82  SONNETS 


LXXXII 

COLD  heart,  that  hath  not  felt  some  passing  pain; 
Some  aching  or  desire  to  be  together; 
To  wander  hand  in  hand  through  heath  or  heather; 
Or  something  that  doth  move  the  simple  swain !  s 
Were  there  not  some  possession  thus  to  gain 
Of  love,  or  lover's  wint'ry  gale  to  weather, 
As  we  do  follow  life,  I  know  not  whether 
'T  would  be  not  best  from  living  to  abstain. 

Then  dead  is  he  who  hath  not  felt  this  joy, 
This  joy  and  sorrow  mingled  in  his  soul; 
To  seek  for  love,  and  feel  its  kindling  flame, 
That  doth  old  age  and  youth  at  once  annoy, 
Yet  holy  treasures  toward  their  threshold  roll ; 
For  lovers'  tears  and  smiles  are  oft  the  same. 


SONNETS  83 


LXXXIII 

WHEN  thou,  dear  one,  hast  lived  as  long  as  I, 
And  seen  the  world  give  treasures  unto  youth 
(Like  some  swift  river,  rushing  to  its  mouth), 
And  drunk  the  cup  of  worldly  pleasure  dry, 
And  felt  enjoyment  passing  with  a  sigh, 
And  in  the  night  seen  goblins  all  uncouth 
Dance  round  the  corse  of  pleasure,  dead  in  truth, 
And  in  thine  heart  is  echoed  sorrow's  cry: 

Then  mayst  thou  come,  with  me,  Love,  to  believe 
That  better  than  all  else,  is  to  obtain 
The  heart's  affection  of  one  single  being, 
That  unto  thee  like  adamant  may  cleave; 
And  lighten  on  its  way  life's  palsied  pain; 
So  that  love's  heaven  thou  art  alway  seeing. 


84  SONNETS 


LXXXIV 

STRANGE  law,  whose  reason  man  doth  not    pos 
sess, 

That  underlieth  every  age  and  clime, 
That  every  human  bosom  must  sometime    v 
Its  presence  and  its  influence  confess! 
Whether  in  youth's  own  gay  and  careless  dress, 
Or  when  old  age  doth  feel  the  weight  of  Time, 
Or  art  describe,  or  poet  paint  with  rhyme, 
Or  warrior  bold,  or  maiden  in  distress : 

This  law  of  love  its  course  must  e'er  pursue, 
And  join  two  spirits  in  eternal  bliss; 
Or  each  torment,  with  unresponsive  thought, 
One  loving,  one  love  wishing  to  undo. 
Oh !  may  I  not  find  love  with  thee  like  this, 
But  still  obtain  what  I  so  long  have  sought! 


SONNETS  85 


LXXXV 

FROM  Thee,  Eternal  Power,  came  my  life, 
And  by  Thee  was  love  born  within  my  soul. 
Since  I  have  felt  Time  and  the  hours  toll, 
And  have  experienced  my  heart  at  strife, 
And  felt  it  severed  oft,  as  with  a  knife, 
I  must  with  one  good  thought  myself  console. 
For  since  I  may  not  consummate  the  whole, 
Nor  reach  the  fulness  of  love  when  't  is  ripe; 

Then  ne'ertheless  have  I  account  to  give 
When,  unfulfilled  in  happiness,  my  days 
In  number  cease  and  I  on  high  must  go, 
To  render  unto  Thee  the  life  I  live. 
So  be  it  then,  that  in  these  passing  lays 
I  prove  not  faithless  to  the  things  I  know. 


86  SONNETS 


LXXXVI 

MY  hope  had  been,  that  I  might  find  in  thee 
The  soul's  ideal,  as  my  love's  recompense, 
That  Heaven  her  fairest  flowers  might  dispense, 
In  prodigal  profusion  unto  me. 
But  with  Reality's  cold  eyes  I  see 
How  different  doth  fate,  in  truth,  compense 
The  disappointment  of  love's  blighted  sense ; 
And  turn  to  rhymes  the  hope  that  cannot  be. 

Oh,  if  thou  shouldst  outlive  my  broken  heart, 
And  in  compassion  see  thy  lover  dead, 
And  once  behold  on  earth  his  crumbling  bones, 
Thou  wouldst  find  in  these  living  lines  a  part 
Of  what  thou  hast  flung  from  thee,  and  must  read 
Love's  epitaph  upon  the  moss-grown  stones. 


SONNETS  87 


LXXXVII 

GOD,  through  his  offspring  Nature,  gave  me  love, 
Though  man  in  opposition  saith  me  nay, 
And  taketh  from  my  heart  its  life  to-day, 
As  through  the  valley  of  the  world  I  rove. 
Still  unaccompanied,  within  the  grove 
That  doth  enamored  beings  hold  at  play, 
My  spirit  must  pursue  its  lonely  way, 
And  strive  to  pluck  some  flowers  that  bloom  above. 

Oh,  wherefore  then  doth  Nature  give  desire 
To  have  that  which  mankind  may  not  possess, 
And  force  him  to  endure  on  earth  hell's  fire, 
And  live  in  one  perpetual  distress  ? 
Some  evil  power  must  such  love  inspire, 
And  with  it  masquerade  in  Cupid's  dress! 


SONNETS 


LXXXVIII 

WITH  some,  the  law  of  love. doth  work  at  ease 
To  some  it  doth  seem  oft  to  make  amends. 
To  some  the  power  of  giving  birth  it  sends ; 
To  others  the  dull  pain  of  a  disease. 
And  yet  how  few  this  passion  seems  to  please. 
At  first  its  force  to  extasy  it  lends, 
Then  deep  into  the  depth  of  grief  descends, 
And  on  the  beauty  of  the  soul  doth  seize. 

Yet,  on  the  whole  love  is  a  mad  possession, 
Taking  from  men  the  peacefulness  of  life, 
Bewild'ring  warfare,  with  the  heart's  obsession, 
That  turneth  Heaven  into  ceaseless  strife, 
Now  seeking  love's  increase,  now  its  repression, 
Until  the  maid  be  merged  into  the  wife. 


SONNETS 


LXXXIX 

LET  not  the  measure  of  my  love  make  thine 
Aught  else  but  as  it  should  be,  true  and  sweet, 
Fair  youth,  who  first  thy  sweetheart's  eye  shall  meet, 
Though  thou  mayst  read  the  tragedy  of  mine. 
Oh,  in  thy  heart  make  ready  Cupid's  shrine. 
Prepare  thy  lips,  that  shall  thy  mistress  greet, 
For  kisses  that  denial  may  defeat, 
And  on  Love's  altar  pour  Love's  sacred  wine. 

Let  myrtle  crown  thy  brow,  lest,  like  my  fate, 
Thou  mayst  find  poison  mingled  in  thy  veins. 
Make  lasting  thine  embrace,  ere  't  is  too  late, 
And  worms  creep  in,  and  mould  leave  deathly  stains. 
Then  may  youth's  sunshine  warm  thy  chosen  mate ; 
For  nought  so  sweet  as  love  through  life  remains. 


SONNETS 


xc 

ALL  else  may  die :  the  leaves  that  Nature  bore 
In  springtime  soon  may  hear  the  autumn's  knell, 
And  men  likewise  feel  death's  o'erpowering  spell; 
Ripe  youth  may  fall,  and  age  in  time  grow  hoar; 
The  moon  doth  wane,  the  sun  sink  from  the  shore; 
Fresh  flowers  fade,  and  lose  their  sweetest  smell; 
Birds  and  their  songs  may  vanish  in  the  dell, 
And  crumbling  stones  of  cities  be  no  more. 

Still  shall  my  love,  like  love  eternal,  be 
Untouched  by  time;  yet  chastened  by  despair, 
And  treasured  in  my  heart,  as  all  may  see, 
Who  would  likewise  their  own  true  love  declare. 
Thus  in  my  soul,  dear  heart,  would  I  hold  thee 
Till  God  love's  injury  at  last  repair. 


SONNETS  91 


XCI 

OTHOU,  fair  youth,  to  whom  the  gods  have  given 
The  gift  of  beauty  and  the  power  of  love, 
Forget  not  that  which  cometh  from  above, 
And  that  affection  is  the  child  of  Heaven. 
Remember  in  these  lines,  that  I  have  striven 
To  make  thee  honest,  when,  through  Cupid's  grove 
Thou  dost  with  some  fair  maiden  lightly  rove, 
Not  caring  by  what  passion  she  be  driven. 

For  what  thou  hast  thou  holdest  but  in  trust, 
Account  of  which  thou  must  give  when  thou  diest : 
To  honor  those,  though  thou  mayst  love  them  not, 
Who  love  thy  soul,  when  flesh  may  turn  to  dust. 
For  if  to  honor  love  thou  rightly  triest, 
Thy  name  shall  live  on  earth  without  a  blot. 


92  SONNETS 


XCII 

BELIEVE  not,  gentle  maid,  that  all  is  won 
When  first  thou  dost  behold  thy  lover  dear; 
Nor  yet  that  all  thy  path  lies  fair  and  clear 
From  love's  first  charm  until  its  work  be  done. 
A  fickle  child  thou  comest  thereupon, 
Whom  thou  mayst  learn  in  time  to  view  with  fear. 
Cupid,  though  young,  may  cast  a  shadow  drear, 
Whose  chilling  gloom  shall  hide  thee  from  the  sun. 

A  lovely  valley  may  thy  footsteps  lure, 
All  filled  with  flowers  that  for  the  fair  are  grown, 
Yet  'neath  its  depth  lie  pitfalls  for  the  pure, 
And  deep  contagions  that  are  oft  unknown. 
Then  happy  art  thou  if  thou  holdst  love  sure, 
Thus  to  escape  the  menace  of  his  frown. 


SONNETS  93 


XCIII 

LOVE  heeds  not  time,  nor  space,  nor  form,  nor  woe, 
The  seasons,  slain  by  Cupid's  arrows,  fade 
Like  misty  spectres ;  and  the  night,  remade, 
Gives  place  once  more  to  day's  unceasing  show. 
The  past  gave  joy;  the  future  pain  must  know. 
Reflection  of  itself  makes  love,  't  is  said, 
Mirror  the  beauty  of  its  thought,  repaid 
A  thousand  times  to  lovers  when  they  go. 

For  which  is  most,  experience  or  thought  ? 
Anticipation  or  sweet  memory  ? 
The  preparation  for  what  love  once  brought; 
Or  last,  the  dwelling  on  delight  passed  by  ? 
All  these  love  still  commands,  through  battles  fought 
With  passion,  lust,  desire,  and  life's  stern  cry. 


94  SONNETS 


XCIV 

HAPPY  my  heart,  and  happier  far  was  I, 
When  ignorant  of  love's  entanglement ; 
When  I  knew  not  its  art  or  blandishment, 
And  fearless  passed  young  Cupid  lightly  by. 
Oh,  happy  hour!   How  vainly  do  I  try 
To  now  regain  my  freedom,  and  repent 
The  days,  the  hours,  the  years  that  have  been  spent 
In  giving  birth  to  an  unanswered  cry! 

No.   Not  in  the  review  of  my  life's  sin 
Have  I  found  punishment,  or  court,  or  trial, 
Or  sentence  of  mankind,  or  prison  wherein 
I  might  drink  drops  of  poison  from  a  phial, 
Or  retribution  that  could  half  begin 
To  be  so  bitter  as  love's  cold  denial. 


SONNETS  95 


XCV 

STRIVE  as  I  would  to  banish  from  my  mind 
The  witchery  that  thy  fair  presence  giveth, 
I  cannot  kill  the  flower  of  love  that  liveth, 
By  that  same  witchery,  or  leave  behind 
The  subtle  fragrance  that  doth  still  remind 
My  soul  of  one  whose  song  forever  singeth, 
Like  some  inhabitant  of  air  that  wingeth 
Above  those  treasures  that  on  earth  we  find. 

For  it  is  oft  —  as  I  indeed  am  now  — 
With  those  who  trample  love  beneath  the  heart. 
The  more  they  seek  to  kill,  or  lay  it  low, 
The  more  it  liveth  with  new-fashioned  art, 
That  causeth  it,  unwelcomed,  still  to  grow, 
And  thus  deny  that  from  it  they  shall  part. 


96  SONNETS 


XCVI 

SINCE  on  thy  form  hath  beauty  laid  its  hand, 
And  set  its  snare  for  thee  and  me  likewise, 
Yet  taught  thee  the  Soul's  beauty  to  despise; 
And  given  thee  no  power  to  understand 
The  reason  or  the  influence  that  planned 
The  depth  of  life,  yet  still  to  temporize ; 
How  is  such  wanton  thought  to  harmonize 
With  love's  fierce  fire  by  my  strong  passion  fanned  r 

O!  Waste  not  then  thy  beauty  in  its  youth; 
But  turn  it  to  account,  lest  thine  own  end 
Shall  find  thee,  left  without  an  hair  or  tooth, 
All  stripped  of  nature's  charm,  which  now  may  lend 
Its  power,  for  thee  to  reproduce  the  truth 
Of  that  same  beauty  thou  wouldst  lightly  spend. 


SONNETS  97 


XCVII 

IN  those  brief  moments  when  thou  wert  my  own, 
I  drank  a  poison  deadlier  to  my  heart 
Than  that  which  toucheth  every  vital  part, 
And  causeth  man  to  tremble  and  to  moan 
Until  the  seeds  of  death  be  fairly  sown, 
And  he  in  palsied  attitude  doth  start 
To  rise,  before  his  spirit  shall  depart, 
And  utter  on  this  earth  its  final  groan. 

That  poison  was  love's  undisguised  belief 
That  I  had  found  eternal  happiness, 
True  freedom  from  all  ill,  and  true  relief 
From  weary  waiting  and  from  loneliness. 
Ah!  Cruel  fate!   Thou  gavest  but  new  grief, 
When  I  believed  that  Heaven  my  life  would  bless ! 


98  SONNETS 


XCVIII 

LET  not  thy  beauty  serve  thee  in  the  guise 
Of  some  dark  power,  as  it  hath  in  the  past. 
Make  for  thyself  some  beauty  that  may  last, 
And  for  thy  friends  some  gratitude  likewise. 
Best  that  they  should  applaud  thee  to  the  skies, 
Than  in  old  age  thou  shouldst  aside  be  cast, 
And  when  thou  diest  be  but  death's  repast: 
Nought  but  cold  clay  (from  which  the  soul  should  rise). 

Forget  not  that  thy  flesh  must  soon  expire, 
And  thy  youth's  veil  from  off  thy  face  be  torn. 
Then  must  thou  from  deception  soon  retire, 
When  outward  beauty  is  by  time  outworn. 
Oh !  I  would  see  thy  soul  by  love  reborn : 
Thou  for  thyself;  I  for  my  heart's  desire. 


SONNETS 


99 


XCIX 

WHEN  I  alone  unto  my  chamber  go, 
To  fold  the  shroud  of  night  about  my  heart, 
And  mourn  an  empty  day  that  doth  depart; 
And  with  sad  thought  compose  my  spirit  so; 
There  cometh  to'  me  the  dear  form  I  know; 
And,  conjured  with  imagination's  art, 
It  bringeth  thee,  so  living,  that  I  start; 
And  my  glad  tears  upon  thy  bosom  flow. 

But  oh,  for  shame!   That  not  thyself  entire 
Be  mine,  as  thou  shouldst  be,  instead  of  this! 
On  earth  both  flesh  and  spirit  hold  empire, 
Wherein  is  man  the  vassal  of  a  kiss. 
Yet  nature  must  I  thank,  as  I  retire, 
That  though  I  hold  thee  not  I  know  thy  bliss. 


ioo  SONNETS 


WHEN  all  the  world  would  smile  in  summer 
time, 

And  bear  the  train  of  nature's  equipage; 
And  love  appeareth,  as  an  appanage, 
To  make  each  lover's  atmosphere  sublime; 
Then  would  I  take  this  pen  and  form  a  rhyme, 
That  singeth  of  my  three  years'  vassalage 
(Still  held  in  love's  unwilling  peonage), 
That  doth  my  spirit  and  my  heart  begrime. 

For  how  could  love  exalt,  which  hath,  for  long, 
Reduced  me  to  so  destitute  a  state 
That  through  each  winter  I  must  nurse  my  wrong, 
Until  each  spring  shall  bring  thee,  all  too  late  ? 
And  when  the  summer  cometh,  my  sad  song 
Is  only  to  deplore  that  I  must  wait. 


SONNETS  101 


CI 

A  LITTLE  flower  in  my  garden  groweth. 
"Love-in-a-mist"  is  given  as  its  name. 
Another,  of  blood  hue,  beside  the  same, 
Doth  droop  and  fall  upon  the  wind  that  bloweth. 
This  is  the  "bleeding  heart."    Like  mine,  it  knoweth 
The  tragic  reason  for  its  early  fame, 
By  some  sad  chance,  upon  the  earth  it  came; 
But  soon,  though  full  of  bloom,  asleep  it  goeth. 
Two  emblems  have  I  in  these  garden  flowers. 
"Love-in-a-mist"  thou  must  be  still  for  me, 
Deep  hidden  in  love's  own  mysterious  bowers, 
Where,  all  uncertain,  I  can  scarcely  see. 
Yet  from  my  "  bleeding  heart "  I  gain  new  powers, 
Though  trampled  under  foot  and  crushed  by  thee. 


102  SONNETS 


CII 

MY  love  makes  of  my  life  a  sad  display; 
All  full  of  good  desires  within  me  born, 
Like  youthful  verdure  in  the  early  morn; 
Yet  by  its  mischief  ruining  each  day. 
No  more  have  I  the  courage  that  shall  say: 
"From  such  poor  revenue  let  me  be  torn, 
Lest  my  life's  high  estate  be  basely  shorn, 
And  I  no  longer  have  wherewith  to  pay." 

No!   still  I  hold  to  thy  heart's  company, 
That  would  but  seldom  grant  what  I  may  use, 
Not  knowing  by  what  power  thou  boldest  me ; 
Yet  giving  all;  that  all  must  still  refuse; 
Unless  this  line  be  writ  upon  the  sky, 
And  bring  eternal  life  to  this  my  muse. 


SONNETS  103 


cm 

IF  in  thyself  doth  all  my  love  reside; 
And  thou,  the  storehouse  of  love's  revenue, 
Holdest  my  happiness  in  full  review; 
In  thy  dear  eyes  lies  pain  for  me  beside. 
Upon  my  heart  thou  ruthlessly  dost  ride, 
Grown  callous  to  entreaty  made  anew. 
Though  without  hope  that  kindness  may  ensue, 
Let  my  blood  flow  to  satisfy  thy  pride. 

Strange  cruelty,  enforced  by  Nature's  child ! 
Thou,  friendly  in  thy  feeling,  but  grown  cold; 
I,  burned  with  Cupid's  fire  and  beguiled; 
Thou  fearful,  I  the  more  by  thee  made  bold; 
Thou,  longing  to  be  free,  untamed  and  wild; 
I,  young  with  love,  though  by  its  pain  grown  old. 


io4  SONNETS 


CIV 

THOUGH  my  true  love  should  be  my  own  un 
doing, 

In  leading  me  where  wisdom  may  disprove, 
Yet  would  I  choose,  in  spite  of  all,  to  love, 
So  I  might  have  the  triumph  of  thy  wooing. 
Then  might  I  feel  that  youth  I  were  renewing; 
My  heart's  sad  livery  for  once  remove; 
And  I  might  ride  through  avenues  above 
The  common  path  that  life  hath  been  pursuing. 

For  nought  could  equal  love,  my  love,  with  thee; 
Nor  could  I  ever  tire  of  thy  praise, 
If  thou  all  that  I  wish  wouldst  be  to  me, 
And  my  soul  unto  Heaven  wouldst  upraise. 
Since  in  love's  season  lovers  all  agree, 
Then  give  me  back  what  I  lose  in  thy  gaze. 


SONNETS  105 


T 


CV 

HOUGH  thou  shouldst  not  perceive  how  love  in 

me 

Doth  play  such  havoc  with  my  interest, 
That  I  am,  as  with  penury,  distrest; 
All  torn  by  tragic  thought  and  agony; 
Though  thou  mayst  think  it  be  no  harm  to  see 
Thy  lover  with  love's  wound  upon  his  breast, 
Think  not  that  by  denying  him  't  is  best 
To  foster  for  thyself  life's  harmony. 

For  though  thou  mayst  deceive  thy  heart  and  mine, 
Posterity,  by  me,  thy  soul  laid  bare, 
Shall  read  the  truth  within  this  written  line, 
And  judge  if  in  thy  love  thou  hast  been  fair. 
All  is,  eternal  honor  may  be  thine, 
So  thou  prove  not  my  muse  and  my  despair. 


io6  SONNETS 


CVI 

TO  thee  all  life  is  but  a  passing  pleasure, 
No  deeper  than  the  thought  within  thy  mind ; 
And  thy  short  love  is  of  a  lighter  kind 
Than  that  which  bringeth  to  my  heart  its  measure. 
How  wanton  is  thy  waste  of  so  great  treasure  1 
And  oh,  how  little  value  dost  thou  find ! 
How  vacant  is  thy  vision,  and  how  blind ! 
How  empty  is  thy  work,  how  vain  thy  leisure ! 

Let  all  thy  faults  foregather  on  that  day, 
When  Love  shall  touch  thee  with  his  magic  wand, 
And  thou  at  last  unto  thyself  shall  say 
Thy  breast  is  wounded,  but  thy  heart  is  fond. 
Yet  shall  I  love  thy  spirit,  come  what  may, 
Though  thou  be  old,  and  I  be  far  beyond. 


SONNETS  107 


CVII 

NOT  clothed  in  transient  beauty  nor  pale  health, 
Like  the  night-blooming  flower,  that  displays 
Its  fullest  glory  when  the  violet  rays 
Of  sunlight  vanish,  and,  as  if  by  stealth, 
The  sable  realm  of  night,  the  commonwealth 
Of  all  deceiving  things,  appears  and  stays, 
Till  day  doth  swift  disperse  its  tricks  and  plays : 
Not  such  art  thou,  endowed  with  nature's  wealth. 

But  on  thy  cheek  the  peach-blush  of  the  sun 
Blends  with  the  russet  touch  of  summer's  hand; 
And  in  thine  eye,  fresh  youth,  that  fades  not  soon, 
Lives  in  perpetual  triumph,  that  is  won 
From  country  joys,  waving  their  magic  wand 
Beneath  the  sunlit  skies  or  silvery  moon. 


io8  SONNETS 


CVIII 

NO  mind  have  I  to  tell  thee  all  thou  art, 
Yet  giving  half,  how  can  I  keep  the  rest, 
Since,  knowing  all,  I  see  both  worst  and  best, 
And  may  not  then  in  truth  withhold  a  part  ? 
Thy  worst  is  like  love's  dagger  to  my  heart; 
Like  Satan,  in  angelic  vestment  drest, 
That  bringeth  pain  disguised  into  my  breast. 
Such  is  thy  worst.   Let  me  thy  best  impart. 

Thy  best  is  all  thyself,  thy  beauty's  charm, 
Thy  glance,  thy  smile,  thy  youth's  fair  consciousness, 
Thy  power  to  endear,  to  twine  thine  arm 
With  subtle  grace  about  love's  deep  distress. 
Still,  be  it  worst  or  best,  thou  dost  me  harm, 
Though  bringing  pleasure  with  thy  soft  caress. 


SONNETS  109 


CIX 

OH,  Love  doth  play  such  wanton  tricks  with  men, 
That  all  their  frailty  is  at  once  revealed, 
However  much  they  wish  it  were  concealed ; 
For  common  wisdom  lies  beyond  their  ken. 
Like  some  slain  victim  toward  a  lion's  den, 
So  are  they  led,  when  once  to  love  they  yield. 
The  warrior  tamed  lays  by  his  trusted  shield ; 
The  youth,  his  youth;  old  age  its  reason  then. 

In  each  condition  is  mankind  disturbed, 
Played  false,  or  in  unguarded  mood  surprised, 
Made  mad  by  overjoy,  or  else  perturbed 
Through  sudden  fear  that  love  must  be  disguised. 
By  some  such  thought  my  love  alone  is  curbed, 
The  which,  I  trow,  thou  hast  ere  now  surmised. 


i  io  SONNETS 


CX 

NOT  all  the  years  of  my  uncounted  pain 
Could  teach  me  wisdom  to  myself  and  thee; 
So  I  still  love,  and  thou  still  boldest  me; 
Nor  all  the  torture  of  thy  fair  disdain 
Wring  from  thy  lips  confession,  or  attain 
The  height  of  misery  that  love  must  be 
When,  unexpressed,  itself  it  may  not  free    , 
From  silent  thought,  or  find  some  speech  again. 

Yet  love,  though  long  unkind,  hath  taught  me  this, 
That  I  may  find  expression  on  its  page; 
Though  not  the  record  of  its  perfect  bliss, 
Yet,  something  of  its  value  to  mine  age, 
Mixed  with  poison  from  the  fatal  kiss 
That  love  still  bringeth  in  its  equipage. 


SONNETS  in 


CXI 

AT  least  thou  canst  not  say  I  have  not  loved, 
Make  accusation  fit  time's  test  of  me. 
Bring  all  thy  grievance  to  love's  court,  and  see 
How  truly  my  devotion  hath  been  proved, 
And  what  high  motive  hath  my  spirit  moved.    • 
Bring  all  the  powers  to  bear  that  lie  in  thee. 
At  least  thou  canst  not  claim  inconstancy  . 
As  comrade  to  that  love  by  thee  disproved. 
For  this  sad  company  my  soul  hath  still, 
That  is  alike  companion  to  my  thought, 
Precursor  of  my  fate  and  fate's  dark  will ; 
My  mendicant  desire  that  thou  be  brought 
Into  my  life,  my  empty  heart  to  fill, 
And  there  remain;  my  own  and  dearly  sought, 


ii2  SONNETS 


CXII 

OFTEN  do  I  in  meditation  dream 
That  in  my  garden  thou  art,  with  my  flowers 
To  watch  with  me  the  foxglove,  as  it  towers 
High  o'er  the  feathery  fern  above  the  stream. 
The  waving  corn-flower  catcheth  the  sun's  gleam. 
The  yellow  poppies,  born  in  summer  hours, 
Now  bloomed,  shed  all  their  seeds  in  tiny  showers, 
And  nature  in  a  lovely  mood  would  seem. 

So  thou,  in  my  imagination,  art. 
And  'neath  the  azured  canopy  of  heaven, 
We  twain,  like  children,  each  do  play  a  part; 
Now,  by  the  sun,  beneath  love's  bower  driven ; 
Now,  by  some  winged  creature,  caused  to  start 
And  leave  the  goal  for  which  we  both  have  striven. 


SONNETS 


"3 


CXIII 

IF  thou  who  readst  this  verse  do  find  herein 
More  tragedy  than  joyous  thought  exprest, 
Oh,  marvel  not,  that  grief  should  not  be  drest 
By  me,  in  bright  array,  to  cloak  my  sin. 
My  sin  is  love,  love  which  I  may  not  win ; 
And  by  this  fact  is  my  heart  overprest 
With  weight  of  sorrow,  and  my  soul  distrest, 
That  I  must  end  where  others  do  begin. 

So,  if  thou  seekest  to  find  within  this  line 
Enjoyment  of  a  jest,  pray  put  it  by. 
'T  is  simply  for  love's  elegy  to  twine 
A  wreath  of  myrtle  with  a  lover's  sigh. 
For  if  this  verse  were  gay,  't  would  not  be  mine, 
Since  lacking  of  my  true  love's  love  am  I. 


ii4  SONNETS 


CXIV 

YET  ne'ertheless  would  I  make  holiday; 
Exchange  love's  martyrdom;  be  light  of  heart; 
Take  note  of  others  who  enjoy  love's  art; 
Make  measurable  sport  of  what  I  may; 
Seek  men  and  women  who  are  blithe  and  gay; 
Forget  the  past  and  love's  more  cruel  mart, 
Wherein  doth  sorrow  play  so  large  a  part; 
And  mirror  life  in  a  more  mirthful  way. 

Oh !  that  I  might  be  now  the  youth  I  was, 
Before  love's  mastery  enslaved  my  soul: 
Free  in  my  fancy,  free  from  life's  stern  laws, 
When  love  of  life  alone  was  my  heart's  goal. 
Then  hath  it  need  of  holiday,  because 
For  long  it  heareth  nightly  love's  dirge  toll. 


SONNETS  115 


CXV 

OH !  well  have  I  examined  my  defect, 
And  all  my  faults  and  follies,  yet  anew 
(Knowing,  alas,  too  well,  they  be  not  few), 
And  marshalled  them,  that  I  may  thus  detect, 
Which  fault  or  folly  love  doth  not  protect, 
And  which  would  separate  my  heart  from  you. 
From  some  like  cause  't  would  seem  you  must  eschew 
This  proffered  courtship,  and  my  love  reject. 
Then  tell  me,  dear,  the  which  I  do  adjure 
Your  honor  and  your  honesty  to  name. 
For  't  is  my  right,  while  my  love  doth  endure, 
To  ask  if  fault  or  scandal  shall  proclaim 
Its  untoward  presence,  and  your  thought  allure. 
For  lies  should  not  kill  love,  nor  hurt  my  fame. 


ii6  SONNETS 


CXVI 

OH !  what  a  thought  hath  filled  my  brain  this  night, 
And  burned  my  fevered  brow,  as  I  suspect 
That  all  these  years,  the  love  thou  didst  reject 
Was,  through  strange  chance,  belittled  in  thy  sight 
By  some  foul  slander  or  some  worldly  wight. 
Methinks  some  poisonous  tongue  doth  intersect 
Both  love  and  friendship,  and  its  shade  reflect 
Unseen  upon  me,  like  some  evil  sprite. 

What 's  this,  that  with  a  start  I  do  behold, 
As  darkness  cloaks  me  round  in  cold  embrace  ? 
Some  goblin,  born  of  fear,  by  fear  made  bold  ? 
Some  lie  that  lives,  yet  dares  not  show  its  face  ? 
Some  tale  that  knows  't  is  false  as  soon  as  told  ? 
Such  company  my  love  doth  poorly  grace. 


SONNETS  117 


CXVII 

AND  with  the  morn,  though  sunrise  shall  disperse 
Those  phantoms  that  dark  hours  oft  have  sought, 
The  spectral  visage  of  some  midnight  thought 
Doth  still  unite  its  poison  to  my  verse. 
In  truth,  suspicion  makes  a  cruel  nurse, 
A  poor  companion,  that  the  world  hath  brought 
To  tend  the  soul  when,  ill  and  overwrought, 
It  reaches  by  such  means  a  stage  still  worse. 
Let  not  my  life,  then,  kill  this  tree  of  love, 
Nor  canker-worm  destroy  its  fresh  green  leaf, 
Nor  moth  devour  its  foliage  from  above; 
So  that  its  ruin  shatter  my  belief 
In  love's  ideal  and  Cupid's  vernal  grove. 
For  love  that  doth  prove  false  must  die  of  grief. 


ii8  SONNETS 


CXVIII 

NOT  every  prince,  nor  king,  nor  emperor  liveth, 
After  his  years  upon  this  earth  pass  by; 
Not  every  painter's  brush,  nor  poet's  sigh 
Bringeth  to  the  world  the  passion  that  it  giveth; 
Not  every  sculptor's  chiselled  stone  outliveth 
The  fell  destruction  of  time's  tenancy; 
Nor  men  thought  great,  nor  man's  inconstancy, 
Commit  the  sins  that  life's  last  court  forgiveth, 
Not  such  as  these  form  that  immortal  band, 
Whose  names  adorn  the  temples  of  past  ages. 
Nay,  those  decreed  by  nature  to  withstand 
The  deep  emotions  written  o'er  life's  pages. 
Their  thoughts  with  all  mankind  go  hand  in  hand, 
Their  loves  make  one  with  genius  and  the  sages. 


SONNETS  119 


CXIX 

HOW  shall  I  all  thy  virtues  here  recount, 
Dear  one,  within  the  limit  of  this  line; 
Or  round  thy  brow  a  wreath  of  roses  twine, 
To  mark  the  passage  of  the  years  we  mount; 
Or  how,  in  this  short  verse,  describe  the  fount 
Of  love,  within  my  heart,  that  is  all  thine  ? 
Within  thy  soul's  retreat  a  light  doth  shine, 
That  maketh  my  return  of  poor  account. 

Then  of  my  homage  take  what  is  thy  due, 
That  which  is  mine  to  give,  and  free  the  giving. 
For  all  I  have  is  now  derived  from  you, 
The  best  of  all  that  maketh  life  worth  living : 
A  gift  of  nature,  given  unto  few, 
Though,  when  received,  a  cause  for  their  thanksgiving 


izo  SONNETS 


cxx 

TIS  strange,  how  little  doth  the  world  perceive 
The  interchange  of  thought  'twixt  thee  and  me ; 
And  how  far  distant  from  the  truth  it  be 
When,  guessing  of  my  love,  it  doth  deceive 
Itself  and  others,  and  some  tale  conceive 
That  hath  no  setting  for  my  heart  or  thee. 
Then  happy  are  we  that  it  doth  not  see 
Beyond  the  false  report  it  would  receive. 

So  thou,  sweet  one,  unmarried  to  my  love 
That  all  these  years  hath  sought  thee  near  at  hand, 
And  seen  thee  bud  and  flower,  as  I  strove 
To  wait  till  Cupid  touch  thee  with  his  wand ; 
So  thou,  upon  some  pedestal  above, 
Locked  in  the  secret  of  my  heart  shall  stand. 


SONNETS  121 


CXXI 

THAT  which  we  have  we  value  not  to-day, 
Yet  when  't  is  gone  its  absence  we  deplore. 
If  fortune  flieth  and  be  ours  no  more, 
Its  trail  of  sorrow  passeth  on  our  way, 
If  by  infirmity  we  cease  to  play 
Those  truant  games  that  childhood  doth  adore, 
Then  are  we  all  anxiety  therefore ; 
Since  many  long  for  youth  when  they  grow  gray. 
So  thou,  who  hast  not  felt  love's  fiercest  pain, 
And  all  unconscious  cast  my  love  aside, 
Mayst  wake  to  knowledge,  and  would  love  regain 
When  I  no  longer  on  this  earth  reside, 
Remembered  by  my  love,  that  shall  remain; 
\      But  thou,  for  killing  me  with  thy  false  pride. 


122  SONNETS 


CXXII 

OH,  chide  me  not,  if  in  this  life  I  make 
Poor  tillage  of  the  soil  that  men  do  plough; 
And  hold  me  not  transgressor,  if  I  now 
Of  this  world's  order  would  not  so  partake. 
Love's  harvester  am  I,  my  love  at  stake, 
And  by  lost  love  my  thought,  it  seems,  must  grow. 
While 'others  happy  issue  from  it  know, 
My  soul  may  not  produce  till  my  heart  break. 

Then  plough,  sad  spirit,  o'er  the  cheerless  morrow,, 
And  though  thy  husbandry  be  but  a  line, 
Know  that  its  fruit,  born  like  a  child  of  sorrow, 
May  bear  thy  likeness,  and  be  thy  life's  sign 
In  after  years,  so  that  the  world  shall  borrow 
Some  portion  of  the  love  that  once  was  thine. 


SONNETS  123 


CXXIII 

IF  thou  wert  chained  by  the  bans  of  life, 
And  wedded  to  another,  as  thy  lord, 
I  well  might  pierce  this  heart  as  with  a  sword, 
And  leave  to  love  the  virtue  of  a  wife. 
But  since  thou  boldest,  by  love's  hand,  a  knife, 
Made  sharp  by  wit,  thy  maidenhood's  reward; 
Thou  mayst  so  wound  me  by  one  fickle  word, 
That  I  am  all  at  enmity  and  strife. 

Unwedded  then,  save  to  youth's  foolish  pride, 
Thou  art  still  free,  and  chaste  as  virgin  snow, 
That,  taken  in  captivity,  doth  fade, 
And  melt  to  water,  clear  as  for  a  bride. 
Then  surely  I  through  frosty  drifts  may  plough, 
To  capture,  in  love's  chase,  th'  unwedded  maid. 


124  SONNETS 


CXXIV 

THOU  art,  in  truth,  my  muse's  only  guide, 
That  fashions  by  this  pen  thine  image  here, 
Developed,  through  loving,  year  by  year : 
The  picture  of  thy  beauty  and  thy  pride. 
For  all  my  verse  doth  hold,  thou  dost  decide, 
Since,  writing,  I  the  thought  of  thee  hold  dear, 
And  must  portray  thy  very  joy  and  fear, 
This  mirror  and  thyself  stand  side  by  side. 

Then,  should  thy  true  resemblance  live  herein 
(An  only  offspring  of  my  love,  for  me), 
I  treasure  this  thy  likeness  as  my  child; 
And  think  thereon,  as  I  do  think  on  thee. 
For  thou  art  both  my  angel  and  my  sin ; 
Since  't  was  my  sin  to  be  by  thee  beguiled. 


SONNETS  125 


CXXV 

BACK  from  the  sculptured  chantry  of  the  past, 
The  chiselled  forms  of  memory  appear, 
Like  stately  sentinels  of  night,  yet  dear 
And  welcome,  as  they  gather  swift  and  fast ; 
Fast  on  the  heels  of  love,  returned  at  last, 
And  swift,  as  recollection  draweth  near. 
The  songs  of  th'  exalted  choir  ring  so  clear, 
They  echo  thoughts  that  time  hath  long  recast. 
Old  chambers  of  the  mind  lie  thus  exposed, 
By  some  strange  magic,  moved  with  nature's  wand, 
And  furnished  by  deft  hands.   Doors,  once  fast  closed, 
Are  opened  to  acjmit  the  wondrous  band 
Of  spiritual  workmen,  unopposed, 
Who  build  anew  things  fashioned  by  our  hand. 


iz6  SONNETS 


CXXVI 

IF  all  the  value  of  my  love  is  this, 
That  by  its  pain  my  verse  may  have  some  lasting, 
Oh,  let  it  bear  the  fruit  of  my  long  fasting; 
Not  in  fulfilment  of  its  end  remiss, 
But  yielding  somewhat  of  that  holy  bliss 
Denied  me,  though  on  others  its  joy  casting. 
No  youthful  heart,  no  hope  let  me  be  blasting; 
No  maiden  keep  from  her  true  lover's  kiss. 

Then  end  thy  tale,  sad  heart  that  in  me  dieth, 
For  want  of  sunshine  from  my  love's  sweet  smile. 
Give  unto  life  the  love  that  in  thee  lieth; 
Since  what  thou  lovest  only  would  defile. 
Gain  for  thyself  the  name  of  one  who  trieth 
Love's  truth  to  teach,  though  sorrowing  the  while. 


SONNETS  127 


CXXVII 

OH!  lay  aside  thy  pen,  since  thou  must  sing 
Forever  in  a  mournful  minor  key, 
And  let  the  world  thy  disappointment  see, 
And  hear  the  death-knell  of  thy  spirit  ring. 
Why  write  of  love,  since  love  thou  canst  not  bring 
Within  thy  craving  heart,  that  still  must  be 
Unsatisfied  ?   Why  on  thy  bended  knee 
Beg  life  from  some  cold,  adamantine  thing  ? 
Yet  at  this  final  moment,  more  than  e'er, 
Dost  thou  seem  near  to  me,  dear  heart,  and  more 
Than  when  first  found,  dost  thou  seem  sweet  and  fair, 
And  of  my  love  possess  a  greater  store ! 
Then  though  my  voice  be  still,  and  dead  the  air, 
In  silence  must  I  thy  dear  self  adore. 


128  SONNETS 


CXXVIII 

THE  Wounded  Eros  fell  upon  the  ground, 
His  bow  and  quiver  lying  at  his  side; 
The  one  destroyed,  the  other  but  half  tried. 
An  arrow,  aimed  at  man,  its  way  had  found 
Beneath  the  child's  soft  flesh ;  and  with  a  sound 
At  once  both  sweet  and  sad,  he  sank  and  cried 
In  pain  to  Venus,  beauty's  queen  and  bride, 
As  she  descended  from  the  heavenly  mound. 

So  with  mankind :  Love,  wounded,  may  be  seen, 
Felled  by  his  own  swift  shaft,  that  poison  brings, 
Instead  of  peace  or  gladness,  to  his  heart. 
Filled  with  the  vision  of  what  might  have  been, 
He  treasures  still  the  very  thought  that  clings, 
Like  sable  night,  though  from  it  he  would  part. 


SONNETS  129 


OTHOU,  fair  one,  who  never  shalt  be  known, 
Though  ages  cover  thy  frail  bones  with  Just, 
And  time  displace  the  greed  of  worldly  lust  ; 
Thou,  whose  gay  spirit  to  my  heart  hath  shown 
How  great  love  may  become  when  once  full-grown: 
Thou,  who  hast  been  the  fullness  of  my  trust 
In  all  things  born  of  love's  fierce  fire,  —  and  must, 
Perforce,  hold  o'er  thy  head  love's  magic  crown  : 

Take  all  I  have.    I  lay  it  at  thy  feet. 
Poor  though  it  be,  't  is  thine.    O  ask  not  why  ! 
Within  these  lines  both  joy  and  sorrow  greet 
The  lenient  friend,  who  hath  not  passed  them  by. 
And  may  those  lovers,  who  have  found  love  sweet, 
Judge  both  our  hearts  when  in  the  grave  we  lie. 


000611  032 


at. 


